


Amour Tartare

by pinkgaura



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Character Death, F/M, Love Triangles, Murder Mystery, Psychological Drama, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-08-10 12:56:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 38,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7845958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkgaura/pseuds/pinkgaura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are a junior detective for the Seoul PD investigating a series of gruesome murders. The Killer is closer than you think. A Hannibal AU murder mystery fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dead by Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters in this story are in no shape and form an accurate representation of their real counterparts. This is a work of fiction. This is also not a factual representation of Seoul's police force or the South Korean justice system.

You get the call at five a.m in the morning. It's one of the girls at the station. "They found another body just minutes ago. You had better get in there, Detective." Your boyfriend Jongin groans in the bed next to you from being awoken by the phone call.

"Sorry, baby," you tell him. You lean over and plant a kiss on his cheek. "I have to get to work." He replies with a grunt and you slip out from underneath the covers. The floorboards are freezing. It's mid-October and winter is already around the corner.

You are ready in ten minutes. It's not as if you are going to a crime scene to impress anyone, but you make sure you are put together and presentable. You are one of the few females in the Seoul PD, and the only female detective on the force. At twenty three you had clawed your way up the career ladder into the position of junior detective and you certainly didn't get there by batting your eyelashes. But still, being a female, appearances did matter and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

You don't even have time to make a cup of coffee, you're already out the door. It's still pitch black outside and your breath comes out white as you rush over to your car. The upholstery is freezing when you slide into the seat and it takes you a good minute to get the car warmed up and started.

You arrive at the scene half an hour after the call. The flash of red sirens and general noise breaking up the silent dawn told you that you had found the right place. You are in a nice looking suburban neighborhood. Half the houses down the streets have their lights on and there are several spectators standing by the yellow tapes trying to pester the police for more information. The sectioned-off house looked pretty much identical to all the others; white with a red tiled roof and a nice white picket fence. The lawn has been recently watered. The grass is cut short and a luscious unnatural green for the season.

You show your badge and slip through the yellow tape. You travel up a paved brick road through a comfortably well-furnished house. Forensics are already doing a sweep and the photographers are snapping away. “This way, Detective,” one of the officers say and they lead you to the back of the house. A half empty glass of wine had been left on the table with a chocolate bar missing a bite. Everything on the coffee table is in place except for the remote.

You are led out onto the back porch. The hedges are in bloom with red roses, but the flowerbeds have been partially trampled by all the activity.  

"Where's my junior detective?" You hear the cranky barking of head detective Wu Yifan over the noise.

"I'm right here Detective Wu!"

"Get your ass over here!"

You see the Head Detective standing in the garden. He is dressed sharply in a suit, tie and a gray overcoat. The smell of decay hits you hard.

“Tell me what we’re looking at detective,” Yifan says.

“A woman. Mid-twenties. Naked.” You take a few steps closer and crouch down, your brows furrowed. “Discoloration around the neck suggests cause of death is strangulation.” The woman’s brown eyes are still wide open in an expression of horror and resignation. Along with the bruises around her neck, cuts, scrapes and other minor bruises mar her otherwise immaculate body.

“What else?” Yifan asks. He is looking at you intently. There is something you’re missing, something important. Your eyes take another sweep of the body before focusing on the groin. When it comes to beautiful women, it is not uncommon to check for signs of sexual assault. What you see makes you gasp out loud. Dangling between the cream of her thighs is the tail of a snake. You stifle a gasp.

“What is that?” You bend down to take a closer look. “It can’t be. Who would do something so horrible?”

Feeling a bit dizzy you climb to your feet and take a few steps back to take some deep breaths. “You okay detective?” Yifan asks.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m fine.“ You’ve seen crime scenes before, ones so horrible and awful they break your heart, but you’ve never seen anything so pointlessly malicious before.

“We’ve got some men questioning the neighbors to see who’s been in and out for the past few days. Forensics guess that the time of death was around midnight. Nothing is missing from the house. We’re getting someone to look through the surveillance cameras from the neighboring houses to see if we can at least catch the vehicles that have passed by. The woman’s husband is out on a business trip. We just confirmed that he’s in Busan. His alibi seems solid but we’ll still have to check it. He was at a conference and then a business dinner. He went with a couple of colleagues to a bar for drinks afterwards past midnight. He’s on his way over here right now.”

“A robe,” you say.

“What’s that?”

“Where’s her robe? She was meeting someone, I’m sure of it, someone she was having an affair with. The wine glass and chocolate, she was trying to calm her nerves. It wasn’t going to be a romantic evening, just something quick or else she would’ve set out two wine glasses. She had been watching TV recently by the door, probably while waiting for her lover to get here. I can tell by her hair that she recently showered. If you bend over close enough you can still smell her shampoo and the strong scent of perfume around her neck, wrists, and her groin. That’s why I’m guessing she was probably wearing a robe of some sort and nothing else underneath.”

“They found a silk robe under the couch,” he says.

“Who found her?”

“Next door neighbor wanted to report her for over-watering her lawn. Her sprinkler came on at 2a.m and the laws around here state that they can only stay on for half an hour. The sprinklers continued for an hour so this neighbor, being a busybody, called the police. What else do you see?”

“Footprints everywhere,” you say.

Yifan’s mouth twists into a grimace. “I know. They made a mess of the scene before anyone could tell them otherwise.” He sighs. “I want you to go with the others to take statements from the neighbors. I’ve got some calls to make.”

You spend the better part of the morning taking statements. Everyone had something to say about the woman living in the house. Her name was Hong Minha and depending on who you asked she was a “very nice woman, very sophisticated and always kept an impeccable house” or “a pretentious upstart. She liked to put on airs when everyone knows that before she married Dr. Hong she was nothing more than a pretty waitress. She was a gold digger.”

No one had seen anyone come and go from the house. Half the residents were asleep at midnight and the other half were getting ready for bed. The few neighbors that were paying attention did hear the sound of a car parking on the road, but no one had gone to check to see who it was. This lack of watchfulness is actually unusual for this type of suburban neighborhood but there had been an emergency broadcast during that time of night announcing a downtown hostage situation at a well known bank.

When you are done taking statements Yifan comes to fetch you. He asks you if you’ve had breakfast yet. You shake your head.

“C’mon scout, I’ll take you out for something to eat. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

You shake your head. “Can’t. I have that thing today.”

“What thing?”

You just smile awkwardly. Recollection flashes across his face. “Oh right, that. Go, don’t let me keep you. You don’t want to be late.”

“Thanks.”

You get in your car and you drive back to the city.


	2. Dr. Park Chanyeol

You arrive at Dr. Park Chanyeol's office at three, the time of your appointment. You are the type of person who hates being late, but also hates coming too early. Both are inconveniences to the other party involved so you like to arrive exactly ten minutes early. The office is located in downtown Seoul in a red building with tinted windows. There are several different offices operating in the building, including a dentist, and optometrist, and a travel agent. You take the elevator the the fifth floor.

Dr. Park’s office is luxuriously decorated, modern and sophisticated but oddly cozy. The wallpaper is a deep sapphire blue with a damask design and ivory trimming. Impressionistic landscapes with gilded bronze frames are hung around the room. Beside the waiting room sofa is a faux fireplace with a neat stack of logs. You sit in the armchair adjacent and mindlessly thumb through the magazines laid out in front of you on the glass coffee table. At the center of the table is a vase full of fragrant pink magnolias. You can tell by the state of the living room that Park Chanyeol is good at what he does.

You look over at the receptionist's desk but there is no receptionist, just a computer and an empty chair. You aren't sure if you have somehow mistaken the date or come at the wrong time, but you get up and make a circle around the room once when the door opens.

Two men walk out. They are both in suits. One is a middle aged man, short and stocky, wearing a gray suit. The other was a very tall and lanky young man, no older than thirty, in a navy blue shirt with a striped tie. They are shaking hands. "I will see you next week," the younger man said. 

"Dr. Park?” you ask, looking at the stocky short older man, who in turn looks at the man next to him.

"Yes?" the young man asks. You stare at him for a moment, forgetting your manners. 

"Pardon me. I didn't expect you to be so young." You blush at your mistake.

He chuckles good naturedly, but before addressing you he leads his previous client out the door. When the older man is gone Dr. Park turns to look at you with a large toothy smile. For someone so accomplished, you are taken aback by his boyishness.

"Is this your first time in therapy?"

"Yes. I'm a bit nervous about it actually. Is the receptionist on break?"

"On vacation in Ireland. On a romantic whim. Good for her, not so good for me. She'll be gone for the next two weeks so I must manage on my own until then. Will you come in?"

He opens the door for you and you go inside. The therapy room, like the waiting room, is opulent, but not too opulent to make one uncomfortable. There is an air of professionalism that makes you feel welcomed but also self-aware. Tall windows let in sheaths of white sunlight through the gaps in the dark velvet curtains. You see his certificates framed and hung on the walls. You take a seat on another comfortable sofa while the doctor sits on the armchair. He picks up a notebook and his pen.

“Would you like anything before we get started, something to drink perhaps? A glass of water?”

“No. I’m fine thank you.”

"Let’s get started then. Would you like to tell me a little about yourself? Why are you here? What do you hope to gain out of this meeting?"

"I'm twenty-three years old. Earlier this year I was promoted to becoming a junior detective. Actually the reason I'm here is because the Chief--that's the Chief of the Police Department of the Homicide Division--recommends that all newcomers get therapy because we have to deal with a lot of gruesome... crimes."

"I can only imagine how stressful your line of work is. Please continue," he says. You notice the boyishness is gone. He is now fully occupying his position as a psychiatrist.

"Normally we have a psychologist that works with the Department but I wanted someone else, someone outside of that line of work. I'm a bit paranoid that the psychologist might be sharing information in sessions as watercooler gossip."

"That would be very unethical of him."

You nod. 

"So tell me." He leans back in his chair as if to indicate that he was finally settling in to begin the real session. "What do you hope to gain? What is your goal for therapy?"

"My goal? I don't know. I don't have one. Is it okay if I don't have one?"

"Certainly."

For a while neither of you say anything. You sit awkwardly looking down at your hands folded in your lap. "I don't really know what to talk about."

"You can talk about anything."

"That's not very helpful."

"You can talk about anything," he repeats. "There exists no one who does not have a plethora of topics they wish to talk about but are afraid to because they believe the topic to be an inconvenience to others, a bore, or worse, an invitation to ridicule or mockery. Discard any notion of what you believe I wish to hear. This is your time, not mine. You have already paid for it."

You think for a moment. "Can I lie down like they do in movies?"

"Of course."

You decide to lie down. It was easier to talk when you were just looking at the ceiling than directly at the handsome doctor with his suit and his notepad. "I have a confession to make.” You take a deep breath before continuing. “I am very good at reading people. I can easily get into their heads and follow their thought process. I don't mean to sound as if I'm bragging. The reason I'm telling you this isn't to impress you or talk myself up. I bring it up because it's the root of all my problems."

"Your ability to identify with others and understand them?"

"It sounds so perfectly harmless when you say it like that, but it isn't, not when you apply a skill like that to criminals and serial killers. Ever since I was a young girl, I’ve been fascinated by them. I want to get into their minds but I’m afraid to. I can get so immersed, it's like I am being dragged underwater. I don’t get as immersed when it comes to normal people, but it’s not something I can turn off easily. My 'empathy' has helped me do well in all my classes and move up in my career, but it's also my main source of anxiety. Sometimes it gets to the point where I don't want to go out anymore. I just want to stay in my house alone so I can shut myself away from all this external stimuli."

"Do you live alone?" he asks.

"I live with my boyfriend."

"And is that difficult for you?"

"It honestly is at times, but I love him, I do. He doesn't really understand why I like to be left alone. I've tried explaining it to him, but it's not something most people can understand. The only other person I’ve told is the Chief and my partner on the force."

"I see."

You take a deep breath and let your focus wander onto the geometric patterns on the wooden panels of the ceiling. You think of how comfortable you are lying on this sofa and how relaxing the sound of the ticking grandfather clock is. For a moment you are utterly quiet.

"I hate being alone, but I hate the idea of losing myself even more,” you say.

"As in your sense of identity?"

"Exactly."

“And what exactly is your identity?”

You say nothing. Minutes tick by in silence. 

"What do you see when you look at me if you do not mind my asking?" the doctor asks. 

You crane your neck and examine him from head to toe. "I see a professional," you say.

He rests the edge of his jaw against the palm of his hand. A small smile comes to his face. He is amused. You sense that he is hiding a secret, but he truly is a professional. You cannot read through his mask. This unsettles you as much as it intrigues you. When coming in you had not planned on doing more than one session, but you think Park Chanyeol might be just what you need. 


	3. A Gruesome Art

You suck in a breath through your teeth. Before you is Hong Minha’s corpse lying on the metal table. Her skin is a pallid white. You can see the capillaries snake underneath her strangely waxen skin.

“The autopsy is still weeks from being done, but I wanted to show you something. Where’s Head Detective Wu?” Minseok, the coroner, asks. 

“He can’t get away and sent me instead. What do you have?”

“An apple,” he says.  He takes out a plastic bag and shows you a small reddish apple. “A crabapple to be specific. I just wanted to show it to you before we send it to the lab to look for particulates. Here are the original photographs if you want to take a look.”

You look through the stack of photographs. Three photographs in, you see the Hong Minha’s mouth opened to reveal the apple nestled inside. 

“The tongue is missing,” Minseok informs you.

“The tongue?”

“Removed crudely with a common kitchen knife.”

“I see no blood.”

“The murderer wiped the blood away with a washcloth. There were some synthetic fibers found in her mouth. Terry cloth.”

“Anything else you can tell me?”

“She wasn’t raped. The only forceful entry was from the dead snake being inserted. It was done postmortem. There were no foreign skin cells or secretions. The snake is a common variety of garden snake. Particulates point to it being from her own garden. Do you think it was planned? I don't know what any of this means. That's your job I guess to make the theories. I just supply the facts. I've never seen a murder like this before. It's almost artistic if it wasn't so gruesome.”

"Spanish painter Francisco Goya,  _Satan Devouring His Son_. French painter Theodore Gericault's  _Anatomical Pieces_. Art can be gruesome. It can be senseless violence. Art can desecrate and destroy. Murder like this is not beautiful and it should not be admired or encouraged, but art is a person's intent of self-expression, and if put that way, murder can be an art. A gruesome art."

You notice Minseok giving you a strange look so you clear your throat and change the subject. "Any sign that her clothes were torn off?"

"No. If she had clothes on, then they were taken off willingly or after she was already dead. She was definitely killed in the garden. The cuts on her back, arms, and legs are filled with the sediment from her back garden, which means she was already naked once out there. No skin cells of her killer under her fingernails. He definitely wore gloves and a jacket."

Minseok continues talking, but his voice grows further away and distorts until the words muffle and fade. The room recedes as if you are moving into a tunnel and you are left alone in the darkness in front of the metal table. The light flickers, creating a sound like the buzzing of a mosquito in your ear. Minha's corpse shudders. Her arms twitch and the back of her skull clangs against the table. She sits up. Her empty black eyes look into yours and her cracked lips part open with an airy hiss. A rattling sound like that of a snake erupts from her throat. You watch as she brings her hands up to her neck and starts choking. Her whole body convulses as she coughs and coughs until finally, with one hand, she reaches into the back of her throat and pulls out the apple. 

You smile.

"Why didn't you do what I say, Hong Minha? If you did, you wouldn't have had to die. Why did you disobey me?" The voice speaking is yours, but the words  are  not, or at least you hope they are not. "Disobedience is the cardinal sin." You make the sign of the cross over your chest.

"Detective?" Minseok's voice penetrates the illusion and when you blink, you are back in the autopsy room and Minha is lying flat on the table, completely inanimate. You let out a sharp exhale and turn away. Minseok returns your blank look with a worried one. His eyes are large beneath his rimless glasses. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Thank you for asking. This has been really helpful. Truly. Thank you for taking the time out to see me when I know you're busy."

"Anything I can do to help," Minseok says. "But take care of yourself. You don't want to overdo it."

"I won't. Thank you.”

When you leave you find yourself driving through the city. Without even fully realizing it, you find yourself back at the Hong house. You park on the sidewalk and you look at the house from across the street. The  police tape is gone. The husband has probably already moved back in. It’s eleven so mostly everyone has gone off to work. The neighborhood is quiet. You sit in the car for awhile, memorizing every detail of the house when your imagination gets the best of you again. You see Minha standing out on the lawn. She is wearing a sunhat, a coral blouse, and khaki shorts. When she sees you, she waves back. "I come here all the time," you murmur to yourself. "I am a shepherd and these are my sheep. I must look after them. I must keep them from straying."

You are jolted back into reality by the ringing of your phone. It's Jongin. You consider not answering it. You wanted to get back into the mind of Hong Minha's killer, but you force yourself to answer it anyway.

"Hello?" you say.

"Hello?" It's a woman's voice. "Is this Y/N?"

"Who is this?" you say a little more sharply than you intended.

"This is Soojung."

Soojung belongs to Jongin's dance company. You recall him mentioning her taking the female lead in the Nutcracker. You've met her a few times before. You remember her as being a bit distant with a hard outer shell but not a bad person. She reminds you a bit of yourself. "Oh Soojung, hello. Why are you calling from Jongin's phone?" you ask, your voice softening. 

"You have to come down to the studio right now," she says urgently. "There's been an accident. There’s no time to explain. Just hurry!"

“An accident? What happened?”

“It’s Jongin.”

Your heart drops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thanks for reading. I'd love any sort of feedback. I know this kind of story is a little unusual for AO3 so I'm not sure how well it would do or if anyone would be interested in reading something a little less romance/smut driven, but don't worry there will be more of that later when we finally get the ball rolling.
> 
> I also intend to update a chapter every few days. What time (don't forget time zone) would be best?


	4. Frosting and Champagne

You first met Jongin a little over four years ago. You had barely made it out of highschool and at the first opportunity of freedom you moved to Seoul and started working as a barista downtown. Jongin had been one of your regular customers. Every morning he would come in at the same time, his face still puffy from sleep and his eyes bloodshot from a late night, and he would order a blueberry bagel with cream cheese and a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows. He was the only regular who never ordered coffee, not even once.

He was gorgeous. There are two types of gorgeous people: those who knew it, and those who didn’t. Jongin belonged to the latter group. He was beautiful and he didn’t have a clue, and this was worse than someone who flaunted their good looks. The problem with people like Jongin is that nice things happen in his life and he doesn’t know why. People smile at him on the street. Cashiers give him his food or drink for free. A pretty girl picks up his tabs. Strangers will greet him on the street. Everyone readily offers their help if he needs it. Because Jongin wasn’t aware of the effect his appearance had on others, he thought the world was a good and decent place. He takes for granted a certain level of generosity daily that most people might only experience once a year.

So Jongin had been used to certain standards. You took his order on the third day of working there and he sent it back. Why? He didn’t get enough cream cheese on his bagel and his hot chocolate only had half as many marshmallows as he was used to. Your manager had stressed during training to be conservative on the spreads. You told Jongin this. He argued that they  _ always _ gave him more. Your co-worker pulled you over to the espresso machines to tell you Jongin was a special customer. Perhaps it was al perk given only to regulars, but you began to notice that most of the other regulars were not afforded this special service.

When his order came “on the house” Jongin would say his thanks, but you could tell he didn’t really feel it. He was used to getting free things. It was as amazing to him as it would be a normal person finding dropped change on the street--nothing to get excited over, but  _ nice _ nonetheless. For other people, anything free would’ve turned a bad morning into a good one.

He wasn’t arrogant, far from it. Jongin was very polite to you, but you didn’t like his type. The two of you may as well have grown up on different planets.

After the first few times, you returned to giving him the regular amount of his order. No special service. He was surprised when you handed him the bagel with only the minimum smear of cheese. When he asked you about it, you shrugged and told him, “that’s how much customers are supposed to get.” You never offered him his order on the house either. You didn’t want to treat him any differently than you did anyone else who walked up to the counter, but for someone like Jongin, this translated into you somehow disliking him.

After a month, you suspected he made a complaint because the manager sat you down and told you that they should make exceptions for “special customers.” Jongin was good looking. He always sat by the window. You knew how to put two and two together.

As you sit in your car waiting at the red light, you think how weird it is that something so mundane could lead two people to fall in love. At one point you couldn't imagine ever finding someone you could love and who could live you back. Now you can't imagine life without him. You don't want to imagine it.

You run the light. As a rule you disapproved of cops who used their sirens for something other than a job, but you do it anyway. You speed through the lanes and all this while dread consumes you from the inside out. Panic has set in. A film of cold sweat has formed on the back of your neck. Your grip on the steering wheel tightens as you make a sharp turn and you see the small two story building sandwiched between a bookstore and a coffee shop. You end up double parking but you don't care. You jump out of your car and you rush into the studio. 

The front rooms are empty and you see Soojung beckoning to you. You rush towards her and ask her what happened but she doesn't tell you. She pushes you into the backroom. You are met with a pitch black room and confusion. The lights flip on.

"Surprise!" It's Jongin. He's not hurt. He is smiling from ear to ear. Your mouth drops when you see a table with a small cake and champagne.

"What is this?" Your voice trembles and you feel the incredible urge to sit down.

"It's a surprise for our four year anniversary," he says. When you turn around you notice that Soojung is gone. This had all been an elaborate ruse.

"Did you tell Soojung to call me?"

"Yes."

"Did you tell her to say that you were in an accident?" Your voice is slowly rising in volume and anger. 

"Accident? No. I just told her to call you and get you over here. Did she say that? Shit. I'm so sorry I didn't mean to make you so worried. What the hell is that girl thinking? I’m sorry baby. If I had known..."

You decide to go sit down. Jongin comes over to you and massages your shoulders.

"I double parked. I used the siren."

He laughed. 

"What's so funny?" you ask, shooting him a glare.

"Nothing. I'm just glad that you were concerned enough about me to use the police siren  _ and  _ double park. Usually you're such a stickler for the rules. I’m touched."

"I-I thought something had happened to you." Your hands are still trembling. Your ball them into fists on your lap.

He leans down and kisses you gently on the forehead. His breath smells like vanilla frosting. "I'm fine. Nothing's happened to me." He wraps his arms around you from behind. You feel strangely betrayed. It's not that you wanted anything to happen to him. You are glad he was safe, but still, you didn't like to be emotionally manipulated in such a way. 

"I'm going to park my car properly," you say. The ice in your tone keeps him from arguing. 

When you return Jongin has lit a few candles at the table and has set out the champagne glasses. You are not in a celebratory mood, but you sit down anyway and take a sip.

"Are you still mad?" he asks.

"I'm not mad at  _ you _ ."

"So you're still mad. I hope Soojung doesn't have any unpaid parking tickets. Have some cake. It might make you feel better. It's red velvet, your favorite.”

It isn't your favorite. That was a lie you told him when you started dating because you don't want to explain that you don't liked sweets.

You cut off a piece of cake and its sugary sweetness assaults your tongue. You finally look across the table at Jongin and he smiles at you, a completely captivating and beautiful smile. 

"Thank you for this. I...I totally forgot today was..."

"I know you were busy with the murder case."

"Still, it's no excuse. I want to make it up to you."

He smirks and he leans in close to you. Along with the frosting and champagne, you can smell his cologne. "I want you to make it up to me," he says seductively. At that you smile. He kisses you softly on the mouth in quick succession. His fingers slip under the hem of your shirt and he places his hand on the small of your back. You kiss him back, pressing your body to his. You are reminded of how wonderful it feels to kiss someone.

But you are interrupted. You are interrupted by the intrusive thoughts of Hong Minha’s killer. Jongin disappears and is replaced by Hong Minha. She is trying to kiss you and you see her wet mouth open with her lipstick stained white teeth coming towards you and you feel nothing but disgust. "I love you. I love you!" she says. It sounds less like a confession and more like a prayer.

"What's wrong?" You're back in reality and Jongin is looking at you. The suddenness of the transition has left you completely stiff. You look at him as if you do not know who he is, but then you shake your head. "I'm sorry."

"You're always like this," he says. 

"You're annoyed.” You say this as if you were making an observation at a crime scene. 

"I'm not annoyed, I'm frustrated!" He turns away from you with a groan. 

“Why are you so upset?” you ask.

“I...I just really wanted to make you happy.”

“I'm not happy?”

“You know what I mean. You’re the mind reader.”

You press your mouth into a thin line. “It doesn't work that way.”

“Conveniently,” he muttered.

“I don’t get why you’re overreacting. In case you’ve forgotten I’m in the middle of a murder case right now. Sometimes I end up thinking about it when I don’t want to. I’m sorry that I can’t make out properly because I’m worried about catching the murderer of an innocent woman,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“That’s not fair,” Jongin argues.

Your phone rings. You want to ignore it but it’s Chief Kim Jongdae. “Hello?” you say too sharply into the phone as you turn away from Jongin.

“A second body’s showed up,” the Chief tells you.

“A second body?”

“Another woman’s been murdered.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Jongin is displeased but there’s nothing more he can say. Your gaze lingers upon him. “We’ll talk later,” you say.

“Right. Later,” he says a bit scornfully.

When you exit the room you hear the sound the cake plopping into the garbage can. 


	5. The Doll in the Window

Police tape has sectioned off a large portion of a main shopping street in downtown Seoul. It’s the worst time for this to happen: a sunny weekend afternoon. The whole place is crowded with spectators snapping pictures or recording videos. The police are trying enforce the perimeter but there’s always some idiot sneaking onto the other side for a quick selfie. A group of people, business owners you presume, are shouting about how the investigation is keeping away their customers. There are demands for compensation. You are accosted by several journalists pushing tape recorders into your face. You wince at the flashing lights of camera shutters going off. “What happened here? Was it a murder?” You politely decline any comments and defer to a press release that will be available sometime in the near future.

Yifan is already there. He is talking to the shop owner. “Good you’re here,” he says to you. “This is Ms. Kang. She’s the owner of the boutique where it happened.”

Ms. Kang is a stylish middle aged woman who had obviously been tearing her hair out over the situation. She is frantic and her clothes rumpled from running back and forth. “Detective you must solve this case! My name will be ruined! I’ll go bankrupt! You know how hard it was to even get this prime spot in one of the busiest shopping districts in this part of the hemisphere? It’s nearly impossible! A business is not easy to run Detective! Most places are in the red for the first three years. Oh this scandal will ruin me!” Ms. Kang takes out a handkerchief and starts dabbing her eyes.

“What happened?” you ask.

“Oh it was awful! It’s too awful!” Ms. Kang cries.

“She’s hysterical. I’ll tell you what happened,” Yifan replies, ignoring Ms. Kang’s theatrical sobbing. He beckons one of the officers over to take Ms. Kang somewhere where she can sit and get something to drink. “The woman’s hysterical,” he mutters under his breath. “Come on. I’ll show you where the body was found. It hasn’t been moved yet. Forensics is still doing a sweep,” he says, leading you to the storefront window. 

You look at a display of mannequins sitting around a long wooden table. Autumn Tea Party is the window’s theme. Three mannequins sit at the table, one at the center facing forwards onto the street while the other two sit at the ends of the rectangular table. Another stands by in a butler’s uniform. Fall maple leaves are scattered on the ground. The mannequins are weirdly realistic, from their coloring to their wigs to their faces. They are dressed in a vaguely Victorian fashion in brown layered dresses and ribbons.

Two forensics guys are in the display dusting for prints and combing the premises for DNA.

“Right there. She was found thirty minutes ago,” Yifan says and points at the one sitting at the middle of the table facing them.

Her brown hair is styled into thick brown curls. A crown of thorns with small white flowers sits on her her head. She is beautiful with porcelain skin and round cheeks dusted with a rosy blush. Even if she is a real person, she does not look out of place next to the other three mannequins.

“She looks like a doll,” you say.

“She’s a popular fashion model. Kim Allison. At 11:05 a woman came into the store complaining that the lifelike mannequins were scaring her young daughter. She demanded that they be taken down. Ms. Kang thought the best course was to put accessories on the mannequins to partially cover their faces. She sends the shopgirl to do the task and when the shop girl was about to wrap a scarf over the girl, she touches her face and realizes immediately that the mannequin was a real human body. We get the call at 11:35. No discernible cause of death yet.”

What do you think?”

You stare at the scene before you. “I’m not sure.”

“Nothing? Really?”

“I don’t know yet. It’s different.”

“Different?”

You shake your head. “The body is on display. The killer wanted her to be found, or at least hidden in plain sight. They wanted everyone to walk past her and not notice. It’s  _ fun _ .”

“Fun?” Yifan repeats dryly.

“For the killer.”

“You think the killer did this for fun?”

“Yes.”

You make your rounds, questioning the witnesses with Yifan before reviewing the cctv cameras. What happened is this. At 8:13 in the morning a male worker in a generic navy blue uniform arrives. Ms. Kang lets him into the backdoor. She claims that the worker was there to fix the plumbing. She doesn’t recall having called for a plumber, but since it was the store grand opening she didn’t take any chances. She didn’t get to see his face. He was wearing a face mask typical of someone who had a cough, but Ms. Kang says he had nice sincere eyes. “A young man. Handsome. I couldn’t see his face, but I can tell he was handsome. He had a nice deep voice and was very friendly. Even if I couldn’t see his face, he didn’t seem like a killer to me.”

You review the cctv footage again. “Right here,” you say when you see him wheeling in a large equipment box big enough to fit a body. Kim Allison might have been a slight girl, but she was tall. “No one saw him bring this in?” Ms. Kang shook her head in amazement. The man leaves at 8:45, which means it took him half an hour to set up the body and leave without a trace. “I’ll run the plate and look up the company on the van, but I doubt anything will turn up. He’s a professional. He knew what he was doing,” you say.

Yifan scoffs. “Another murder within the same week. The press is going to tear us apart. Some damn politician is going to throw us under the bus to get his name out there. God I hate this job sometimes.”

After making a call to run the license plate of the car, you spend the next few hours taking statements from witnesses, which included all those working in the store and the shoppers who had stayed behind, though the ones that would’ve been here when the killer took the body into store were long gone. None of them provided any enlightening information. You take a look around the store and the driveway where the van had come up. Nothing. After returning to the department you get a message that the plate is a stolen one. The plumbing company does exist, but all their employees are all accounted for. Solid alibis all around. No one had been contacted by Ms. Kang and there were no orders to visit her shop. A dead end as expected.

You sigh, closing your eyes and rubbing your temples. In front of you is your phone. You should call Jongin to apologize for snapping at him. It really hadn’t been fair at you to guilt trip him like that. You have to constantly remind yourself to compartmentalize your work life and your personal life. Your thoughts are interrupted when Yifan practically runs over to your desk.

“Get your things. We got a call from the coroner’s. It’s urgent.”

You grab your coat and take the passenger seat of Yifan’s car. Even in a hurry you marvel at Yifan playing his cheesy 80’s Chinese ballad music as soon as you get in. He’s a romcom soundtrack sort of guy and you’ve made fun of him countless times for it. 

Minseok meets you at the door slightly out of breath. “You’re here. Good, good.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “This way. You need to see this.”

You exchange a glance with Yifan and you follow after him down the hallway. The front of the coroner’s office is normal, but once you get past the double doors, away from the carpet and onto the linoleum, the heavy smell of disinfectant hits your nose and makes your eyes sting. The autopsy room awaits. Inside, Kim Allison’s body lies on the table naked. Her skin is as white as a sheet. She is as tall as Yifan. You had looked at her profile earlier. She was only eighteen years old.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt your investigation,” Minseok says.

“No. God I’m glad to get out of there. Her mother’s been hounding me since I got back. I feel bad for the woman I do, but I can’t work on solving this case if she’s weeping at my desk all day. Not to mention all the phone calls.” 

“The phones have been ringing all day with ‘tips.’ Most of them are just from obsessed fans accusing one another of the murder,” you explain to Minseok. 

Minseok nods. “Okay the reason I wanted you both down here is because the murder resembles the Hong Minha one. You see right here?” he asks pointing to the light scarring along her abdomen. “I haven’t opened her up yet. I’m not done checking for evidence, but I had to show you this. She had surgery recently, and by that, I mean very recently, as in just before her death. The stitches are too neat to have been done by an amateur. A steady and experienced hand is needed. Over here.” Minseok leads them to a scan hanging up on the wall. “This is her MRI. Do you see it?”

You both look at the scan. “Her stomach’s missing,” Yifan replies with a frown. “What the hell is that?” he asks pointing at a crescent shape where her stomach is supposed to be.

Minseok takes a deep break. “That right there is a snake.”


	6. Turducken

Your apartment is simple and functional. It’s nothing fancy, not on your government salary anyway. One bedroom, one bath, a small study, and a kitchen that connects to the living room. You have to do laundry at the coin laundromat down the street. Being on the second floor, you have a balcony that you never use. The air in downtown Seoul is not ideal so you rarely open the balcony or the windows. When you get home Jongin is not there. There is a note on the fridge. He is going out with some friends for drinks.

After grabbing a beer from the fridge you sit at the kitchen table and lay out the thick report that has been typed up about the Hong Minha case. Even with this new murder you are not allowed to neglect the older one. You believe the key to catching Kim Allison’s murder is to catch Hong Minha’s first. When it comes to a missing wife, the husband is always the first to be suspected. His alibi is airtight. You’re sure he isn’t the murderer but there may be clues in the transcript so you read it to be thorough.

 **INTERVIEWER** : Did you notice any unusual behavior coming from your wife these past few months?

 **MR.HONG** : Unusual? I don’t know. We’ve only just moved in together so it’s impossible to tell what’s normal and what isn’t.

 **INTERVIEWER** : Then can you tell me your wife’s normal daily routine?

 **MR.HONG** : I’m not sure. I work during the day so I can’t say for sure, but I’ll try. She wakes up before I do so she can make breakfast. Probably around six I’d say. I leave for work at seven-thirty and don’t return home till six at earliest if I’m not having a drink with my colleagues. I never really asked her what she does all day. I regret not taking more of an interest in her life. I just assumed she spent the day cleaning, shopping, and preparing for dinner. She does watch those popular TV dramas so I think that fills up a lot of her time. She tapes them in the evening so she can watch them during the day. When I get home we eat and then we pretty much go to sleep. There’s not much to tell.

 **INTERVIEWER** : And what about the weekend when you are not working?

 **MR.HONG** : I go golfing on Saturday. You know how it is. The only way to get a promotion around here is to get friendly with my superiors. We do try to eat dinner together every night and on Saturday night we usually eat out at this Italian Restaurant that we both like. I’m a bit ashamed to admit that our conversations usually revolve around my work life.

 **INTERVIEWER** : And Sunday?

 **MR.HONG** : We go to church. Usually someone from church throws a barbeque or a luncheon so we usually attend those. I guess now that we’re on the topic, she didn’t really have any friends. At least, if she did she never talked about any of them. The only time I’ve seen her really be social around others was at these church socials.

You aren’t sure when or how you fell asleep, but you are awaken by Jongin with a gentle shake of the shoulder. His face is close to yours. He is murmuring something in your ear but you can’t catch his words.

“Hm?”

“I’ll help you to bed,” he says. You wrap your arms around his neck and he sweeps you off your feet and carry you to the bedroom. You always forget how strong dancers are. By the time he puts you down you’re fully awake.

“I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to ruin our four year anniversary. I really do care about you. You do know that right? You know that you mean the world to me,” you say in a soft voice.

He has a strained smile on his face. You can tell he wants to believe you but doesn't.

“So there was another murder?” He asks, changing the topic. “My friend works at a cafe down there when he saw all the news cameras.”

“Let's not talk about work on our anniversary. Come here. Get into bed with me.”

He takes his shirt off, revealing his lean muscular frame, and climbs into bed. You weave his hands in yours. He grasps it tightly. After he gets comfortable he pulls you to him, spooning you. His skin is warm and soft, but you can feel the hard muscles shifting underneath. “I wish you wouldn't work so much,” he murmurs into the back of your neck.

“Me too.”

“You need a vacation.”

“One’s coming up. Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere. As long as it's just the two of us and no one gets murdered while we're there.”

“Sounds perfect,” you say with a laugh.

After Jongin has fallen asleep you are still awake. You return to the kitchen to the manuscripts you had left on the table. Circled in a red marker on the top page is “church”.

You turn on the TV. On every channel Kim Allison’s case is being broadcasted on the news. You watch the program on a low volume. The news anchor shows the crime scene from this morning from an aerial view taken from a helicopter and then pictures of the display. Apparently some shoppers had managed to snap photos of it before anyone realized it was a crime scene. The news anchor goes on to talk about the police force working on the case. Yifan’s name is mentioned. You are surprised when they air footage of you crossing the police tape. You look exhausted and grumpy. Your name is printed on a banner at the bottom of the screen but it’s gone within a few seconds. Then follows some filler footage of reporters near the store asking shoppers how the crime has affected them. Some shoppers say they no longer feel safe. You roll your eyes internally at the media’s ridiculous fear-mongering.

After they’ve shown and reshown the footage, they air a montage of the young model’s life and then various short interviews with fans and people she knew or worked with. Everyone only had nice things to say. They were on TV and she did just get murdered after all. They have pictures and video clips up from Kim Allison’s social media accounts. Apparently she had a large online following.

Near the end of the program they call in a psychologist to talk about obsessive celebrity culture. Everyone seems to believe that it was a psychotic fan who had murdered her. You don’t believe that’s true and neither does the Chief or Yifan but it is easier to let the public believe that than entertain the possibility of a serial killer.

The next morning at the office Yifan drops a fax onto your desk. “‘The snake is the same breed as the one found in Hong Minha. We found applesauce inside the snake,’” he read to you.

You take the paper and reread the fax once more.

“It’s got to be the same killer,” he says. “A snake. Applesauce?”

You shake your head vehemently. “I told you yesterday it’s not the same killer. This killer didn't kill out of violence or passion he killed out of admiration.”

“Admiration?” Yifan says in disbelief.

“It's a reply to Hong Minha’s killer--or maybe it's not a reply--maybe it's a tribute or a dedication. I think we will have more trouble finding Allison’s killer than Minha’s. Typically the victim of a murder is acquainted with his or her murderer. This is almost certainly the case for Hong Minha, but Kim Allison is different. She’s a public figure. There’s an enormous pool of suspects involved and I bet the killer won’t be one of them. They will most likely have no relationship. They’ve probably never even met until he abducted her. He picked her because she’s famous and he wanted the press. Why else would he dress her up for the window display of a popular boutique at their grand opening weekend? It’s too risky to take a body in the middle of one of the busiest streets in Seoul unless he wanted the attention, but not just anyone’s attention. This killer is a copycat, like someone creating an imitation of another painter’s style. Few will notice the difference, but Hong Minha’s killer will.”

“So you’re saying that this copycat is trying to reach out to him?”

“I don’t know. ‘Reaching out’ is a bit of a stretch. I think he just wants to show his support.”

“Great, killers cheering each other on. Just what we need,” Yifan says sarcastically. “That’s literally the worst case scenario. Not only do we have two murderers on our hands, the other one is goading the first one on.”

You nod. “Hong Minha’s killer operated under his own twisted sense of justice, of righteousness. He killed to punish her. Kim Allison’s killer is only playing a game. He’s obviously having fun with it, but more importantly, though the details about the snake ended up being leaked from Hong Minha’s death, we made sure the apple and the missing tongue never made it into the news, so how did the killer know?”

“Jesus Christ.” Yifan rubs the bridge of his nose. “Do you think this guy has an inside source?”

“I don’t know, but if he’s got access to police information…”

“You don’t think it’s one of us do you?”

“The killer could’ve gotten the information any number of ways, but the fact that he could get it at all means he’s trying to provoke us. The applesauce is a joke.”

“A joke?”

“Have you ever heard of a ‘Turducken?’”

“A what?”

“It’s chicken stuffed inside a duck stuffed inside a turkey. The apple inside the stomach of the snake inside the stomach--or at least where the stomach used to be--inside the girl. He knows this information won’t be in the news. If part of his reasoning is to show support to Hong Minha’s killer, the other part is to poke fun at us. He’s playing with us. He doesn’t just want the other killer’s attention, he wants ours too.”

“Great. That’s my favorite: a playful psychopath,” Yifan says dryly.


	7. Take me to Church

You are standing in the parking lot shielding your eyes from the sun’s glare in front of the The Royal Azalea Presbyterian Church. It’s Sunday afternoon--the Lord’s day. Yifan steps out of the car with a scowl on his face. He is not happy to be here. He tells you that Christianity is too rigid and such a religion is not for Asians. Yifan practices a grab bag of Taoism, Buddhism and Confucianism where he switches between the three at his own convenience. You've never seen him step inside a temple and the only evidence of his Buddhism is the miniature bronze smiling Buddha statue taped to his car’s dashboard. 

“Did you grow up religious?” he asks you.

“Not really. My parents were raised Christian, but they didn’t raise me that way. My mother tried, but it didn’t work out. I’ve been inside many different kinds of churches, chapels, cathedrals, and even the Vatican, but I can’t say I’m religious. My father only took me to those places for the artwork.”

“The artwork?” Yifan makes a sour face. “What’s so great about seeing seeing naked fat babies with wings?” he asks.

At first you don’t know what he’s talking about, but then you laugh. “You mean the cherubs?”

“Yeah those things. They scare the shit out of me. Who in hell thinks those monsters are cute? They’re so damn creepy. Where’s the pastor? Or is it priest? What’s the difference? There’s too many damn titles.”

You shrug. “Pastors are more casual. You’d know a priest if you saw one. The guy in the blue suit at the door greeting everyone is probably the pastor.”

The church itself is a nondescript building with a white cross at it’s highest point. It looks like any other community center around the suburbs but it does boast a rather extensive and well-kept garden. It’s no grand cathedral with its gothic architecture and stained glass windows, but you suppose it’s appropriate for the modesty that is Protestantism. As the two of you are about to go up the church steps, someone bumps into Yifan, making him spill a portion of his coffee.

“Watch it!” he snaps.

A young boy, probably around ten or eleven years old stares up at him with wide fearful eyes. 

“P-Pardon me sir! I’m sorry for bumping into you!” he squeaks, tensing up immediately under Yifan’s glare. You are generally indifferent towards children but this one is unusually adorable with his doll-like features. He also speaks with a noticeable Chinese accent, which makes  Yifan forgive him immediately (and not at all because Yifan has a soft spot for children). He begins talking to him in Chinese and the kid visibly relaxes and replies in the same rapid fire intonations with a bright smile on his face. They speak for a minute. Yifan gives a nod of approval and the child flashes you a shy smile before running off inside.

“Cute kid, what was that all about?” you ask.

“Nothing much. I just asked him where he was from. Was hoping we’d be from the same area, but China’s a big place so that wasn’t likely. Said his name’s Luhan and he was born in Beijing. He lives here now with his Korean stepdad.”

After you greet the pastor with a quick handshake and receive a pamphlet outlining the schedule for today’s service you and Yifan go inside. The church smells a bit musty like old carpeting. It’s a bit dark too. At the entrance is a wooden statue of Jesus.

You see the kid run up to a suited man sitting in the pews with a leather bound gold paged bible tucked under his arms. The boy turns around and waves at Yifan. The father grabs his hand forcefully and lowers it. He evidently did not approve of Luhan waving to strange men. 

You both take your seats at the back. The bench is hard and uncomfortable. You did not bring your own bible but one is provided for you in the small compartment under the bench. The pamphlet tells you that the service will begin with prayer. 

The pastor wants the congregation to pray for Hong Minha. “I would like to introduce everyone to Wu Yifan and Y/N. They are two police officers. Will you please stand up so everyone can see you?” You would’ve preferred not to, but everyone is staring so you and Yifan stand up. “I want everyone to be as helpful as possible should they have questions. They are here for a noble cause: to bring justice to our dearly departed Hong Minha who was taken from us much too soon. Now let us pray her killer is brought to justice, but I want to remind you not to forget that the only one who can rightfully judge is God. We are not here to focus our thoughts on the killer, but on the victims. Let us pray for Minha’s soul’s speedy ascent to that eternal resting place of peace and tranquility and may God’s love see us all through this devastating tragedy. Amen.” 

“Amen.”

The topic for today's service is forgiveness. Yifan lets out an open mouthed yawn. Neither of you are listening but are instead scanning the pews and examine the individuals all seated in varying degrees of rapt attention. You recognize some of the faces during the earlier stages of the investigation. Many were Hong Minha's neighbors and close acquaintances. You have even talked to a few of them before during the earlier stages of the investigation.

“...as written in Matthew 6: 14-15: For if you forgive other people when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive others their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins,” the pastor recites.

“Kind of wordy isn’t it?” Yifan mutters under his breath.

When the sermon is over everyone heads out to the tables lined with cookies, cakes, and fruit salad for a half hour break. Yifan excuses himself to wait in line for the toilet while you pull out your notepad and scribble some quick notes.

“What are you writing?” It’s the boy Luhan again. He looks up with you with large doe eyes. He is holding a half eaten chocolate chip cookie in his hand.

“I’m writing down some questions I’d like to ask before I forget them. How about it? Would you like to answer some questions for me about Hong Minha?”

Luhan thinks about it for a second and then nods. “Okay,” he says and then finishes his cookie in two bites. He brushes the crumbs from his hands and then wipes the grease on the bottom of his shorts.

You lead him to an area outside where he can sit on an iron bench just outside the church’s community garden. There are other churchgoers standing outside chitchatting. You wish that the pastor had not pointed you out as everyone is giving you odd looks as you sit down with Luhan.

Luhan is a lanky boy. His clothes are a size too big for him. The sleeves of his shirt fall past his hands and he has to keep tugging them up to his elbows. 

“Ms. Hong was my friend. Sehun-ah was friends with her too. She was always bringing us stuff to eat, really good stuff she makes herself like cookies and cakes. Once she brought a real American New York cheesecake!”

“Who is Sehun?” you ask.

“Sehun-ah is my stepdad. He’s not my real dad so I don’t call him ‘dad’ I just call him ‘Sehun-ah.’ He says I’m his son but I’m not his real son so I don’t know why he says stuff like that. I told him that he’s telling a lie and he says he’s not. What do you think?” he asks.

“Sometimes if you raise someone, they feel like your son or daughter even if they aren’t by blood. Think of it this way. God is referred to as ‘Father’ and we are all supposed to be his children, but you’re not related to God by blood are you?” He shakes his head. You give him an encouraging smile. “See?”

“I think I get it,” he says with a nod.

“How often does she bring you food?” You want to return to the topic before he forgets.

Luhan stretches his legs out and scratches the side of his face while he thinks about it. “A lot.”

“How many times a week?”

“Two times I think. Yeah, it was two times. She always came on Monday and Tuesday.”

“And what did she do when she came over?”

“She brought food and sometimes she will sit with Sehun-ah and talk about the bible.” Luhan scrunches up his face. “They talked about a bunch of boring adult stuff so I like to sit in the other room and watch TV while I eat because sometimes--”

“Luhan!” His father’s booming voice makes Luhan leap out of his seat. You see Sehun rushing over towards you with long quick strides. “What did I tell you about talking to strangers? Get over here! And  _ you _ ,” he snaps, pointing at you, “Stay away from him! Who gave you permission to talk to my son? Just because you’re a police officer doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want! Come on Luhan let’s go.” He grabs Luhan by the arm and yanks him away. Luhan nearly stumbles over his own feet and he looks back at you with an apologetic expression. At first you are worried that the boy might be in an abusive situation but he doesn’t seem afraid of his father. 

You are surprised when Sehun goes to his black Hyundai to leave. Luhan is arguing with him about not wanting to go yet but his father gives him a stern look and Luhan quiets down and gets in the car. You jot down the license plate of the car as they drive away. 

Yifan rejoins you in a few minutes. “Do you know what the worst thing is about going to church? All these old church ladies hitting on you. Here I am, innocently standing in line for the bathroom and all of a sudden I’m flocked on all sides by these old crones who wants to see my badge or feel my arms! That’s sexual harassment! Do they think they get a free pass just because they’re old ladies?” Yifan lets out a derisive scoff. “Almost pissed myself too waiting in that long line. So what about you? What did you find out?”

“I think I found our prime suspect for Hong Minha’s murderer,” you say as you watch the black car disappear around the corner.


	8. In the Suburbs of Gangnam

The man’s full name is Oh Sehun. He’s a thirty-one year old software engineer who was hired straight out of university by Samsung but was eventually transferred to an overseas branch in Beijing where he married a local Chinese woman with a five year old son whom you learn is Luhan. The marriage happened quickly--only a year after Sehun landed in China. Without further research you have no information on how the couple met or how long they had been seeing each other before the marriage. Two years later, the woman disappeared. Sehun had filed a missing-persons report and her body turned up two weeks later on the Chaobai river. The cause of death was by drowning. Apparently it was a very stormy day in Beijing when she had fallen into the river. Local authorities first chalked it up to an accident, but after her purse washed up and the money and credit cards had gone missing, they suspected a mugging and that someone had, with the help of the heavy winds, pushed her into the river. The credit card was later retrieved after someone tried to use it to purchase an expensive pair of shoes. The man apprehended told the police that he had bought it from a reseller off the black market who was unloading hundreds of stolen cards. The reseller in question was never found. The case was soon dropped. The police finally decided it was an accident. The cards and money could’ve been taken after she had fallen into the river. It was impossible to tell.

You let out a sigh and take a sip of your coffee. Your eyes are tired from reading reports and long hours in front of the computer. You are glad that Yifan can speak Chinese. He had called up the Beijing police department to get this report, but even then, there was a lot of red tape in sharing confidential information and it took over a week of going through the right channels to finally receive it. The PRC government and South Korea are not exactly on the best of terms.

“Why do you think this guy is the murderer?” Yifan asks. He walks over and sits on the edge of your desk. “You barely even got a good look at this guy”

“During the entirety of the investigation no one has ever mentioned Oh Sehun even once. No one knew they had any sort of relationship besides that of casual church acquaintances. His name was never brought up when asked about Hong Minha’s friends. Most of them, including her husband, said that she didn’t have  _ any _ close friends yet she was visiting this guy’s home two times a week and bringing homemade baked goods.”

“I agree it’s suspicious. So do you think he offed his own wife too?”

“I don’t know yet. It’s hard to say without any information about her or their relationship.”

“What happened to that magic mind reading you do where you get into the killer’s head?”

You frown. “I told you before, it’s not magic. It’s a theoretical scenario built upon evidence. Right now we don’t have any evidence that he killed his wife. We don’t even have any evidence that he killed Hong Minha. I only know Oh Sehun fits the profile, that’s all.”

Yifan sighs. “Then let’s find ourselves some evidence.” 

“Find out more about the kid.”

“Why?”

“The father won’t talk but kids are honest.”

You both show up to Oh Sehun’s home the next day. His house resides in one of the gated communities of Gangnam with security cameras on every corner. You both had to flash your badge to the guard just to get through. “If we can get a warrant to view the security footage we can at least see if he went out the day of Hong Minha’s murder,” Yifan suggests. 

Sehun’s house is one of the smaller ones in the community but he still has a well kept pool and lawn out front. You see him outside weeding the flowerbeds of deep purple and blue pansies. He seems to be an avid gardener. You see several well maintained rose and peony bushes. He is even growing some birds of paradise along the hedges of his lawn. Outside of the formal atmosphere of the church and his suit he looks like an entirely different person--younger somehow now that his hair is without styling products.

Hearing your car pull up, he looks up with a menacing glare. Yifan steps out immediately, pulling his badge before Sehun can get a word in.

“Oh Sehun? We’d like to ask you a few questions if that’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay. How did you get in here? I don’t want to talk to either of you.” He puts down his spade and stands up.

“We can either talk here or we can talk at the station. Your choice,” Yifan tells him in a cool even tone. 

Yifan, despite being in your opinion a silly man, is still a very intimidating police officer. He’s tall and muscled with a permanent scowl on his face. He once asked you if he was a scary guy. You told him it was all in his very serious looking eyebrows. He had laughed at that and gave them a wiggle.

Sehun glances at his house. You both catch it. “Is there someone else home?” Yifan asks in a casual voice.

“My son.”

“Shouldn’t he be in school? It’s Tuesday.”

“He’s homeschooled.”

“Then I’m guessing you really don’t want to go back to the station for this conversation. Unless you got a babysitter on call,” Yifan replies.

He looks hard at Yifan and then at you before finally resigning himself. “All you police officers are bullies I hope you know that.” Sehun throws down his gardening gloves and heads inside while grumbling under his breath about how his taxes are paying your salary. The commotion must have alerted Luhan because he opens the door before Sehun reaches it with a puzzled expression. When he sees you and Yifan he smiles.

“Sehun-ah it’s the police officers from church!” he says excitedly.

“That’s not a good thing. They think I  _ murdered _ Hong Minha,” Sehun says through clenched teeth. Luhan’s smile disappears. 

“Now no one’s accusing anyone of anything. We just want to ask you a few questions in private.”

“Bull. Shit,” Sehun hisses under his breath.

The house is tidy and well-kept. The floral prints of the furniture and wallpaper, the white lace doilies, and ruffled silk pillows makes it seem like the home of a rather sweet and friendly grandmother rather than a widowed bachelor and his son.

“Does this house belong to you?” you ask. Fine china plates have been put up on display on top of a glass cabinet. You see a framed photograph of a woman, who you assume is Luhan’s mother, holding Luhan as a chubby cheeked baby.

“Yes it belongs to me!” he snaps bitterly.

“Do you want something to drink?” Luhan offers because Sehun does not. “We have water and lemonade in the fridge. I made the lemonade myself from the lemons on the lemon tree in the backyard,” he says.

“A glass of lemonade sounds great,” Yifan replies gently. You know he doesn’t really want anything to drink, he just wants Luhan out of the room so he could talk to Sehun and once Luhan is gone, he does exactly that. “Where would you like to talk? I’d think we’d both prefer it if your son was out of earshot due to the  _ sensitive _ nature of the questions.”

“I have an office.”

“Good.”

Luhan comes back with the lemonade. Yifan thanks him and Sehun tells him to go play or watch TV. When Luhan is gone Sehun shows you both the way to his office. It’s not very big and feels even more cramped with the programming books lining the shelves. The only exception to the computer books is a shelf full of different religious texts. There’s a large adjustable desk with several monitors on top. “What’s with all the screens?” Yifan asks. 

“I need them for work. It’s convenient,” Sehun explains dryly. 

Behind the two of you is a couch big enough for two people. Sehun tells them that sometimes he likes to nap in here. You two sit down on the couch.

“Excuse me for a second. I need to use the restroom before we begin,” he says and then leaves the room.

You are both sitting there, Yifan browsing through his phone while you examine the various certificates framed on the wall when you hear a high pitched scream that makes the two of you jump out of your seats.

“Luhan!” you both say to one another at the same time.


	9. Blood of the Son

Yifan is first out the office door. You both have your gun in hand. The scream came from down the hallway from a partially open door. Yifan bursts in and you follow after into Luhan’s bedroom. Sehun is on the ground cradling Luhan in his arms. The boy’s throat had been slashed. You see the reddened knife. The blood has soaked the blue carpet a brownish black. Luhan’s eyes are wide. He gasps for air while blood spurts from his mouth and pours from his wound.

“I'm sorry,” Sehun says in coming sobs. His face is red and wet with tears. “I'm sorry but I have to do this. I'm so sorry. I love you so much. Luhan you know I’m doing this because I love you. Please forgive me son. God please forgive me!” He sobs into his dying son’s bloody shirt as if he had no control over the situation.

“Step away from the boy!” Yifan barks. When Sehun didn’t, Yifan grabs him and wrestles the knife out of his hand.

You rush over to Luhan’s side and put your hand under his neck to elevate the area. “Stay with me!” You immediately phone for an ambulance and backup. “The ambulance is on its way. Don’t look at them, look at me,” you tell him when you see him glance over at the scuffle happening with Yifan and Sehun. He returns his gaze towards you. The fear in his eyes dissipates. You’ve never seen such clear eyes before. They are like colored glass beads. 

In the distance you hear the wail of arriving police cars and, hopefully, an ambulance. Yifan has managed to pin Sehun down onto the ground when the front door is kicked open. You don’t let go of Luhan until the paramedics arrive and take over. You take a step back and watch them work to first stop the bleeding before they take him onto the stretcher out the door. When you return your attention back to Sehun you see him handcuffed. Half his face is swollen from being punched. Blood trickles from a cut bottom lip. The paramedics are attending to Yifan’s arm.

“Are you okay?” you ask him.

“I’m fine. It’s not very deep. Stings like all hell though. Bastard was playing fast and loose with the knife. The boy’s going to be alright right?” he asks the paramedic helping him.

“We’ll do everything we can,” he says. You know it’s a golden rule for medical professionals to never make any promises. Never tell the victim’s family that the victim will be okay. At best you get shouted at for lying and at worst, a lawsuit.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Sehun says. He is calm now, eerily calm. 

“Shut your trap you nutcase,” Yifan spits. “ You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning.” He recites the rights but he isn’t very pleased about it.

“I don’t care who knows it. He’s too good for this world. Luhan’s an angel. A real angel sent from heaven. He doesn’t belong here.”

“Did you kill Hong Minha?” you ask him.

Sehun smiles. “I want my lawyer.”

“ _ Now _ he’s sane,” Yifan retorts. 

You are standing in Luhan’s bedroom. The evidence of the violence is limited to only a corner of the room. The rest is untouched, disturbingly innocent almost. His bed has an Ironman comforter. There’s an old stuffed teddy bear on his bed. His shelves are filled with comic books and superhero figurines. One section is full of legos. His desk is piled with workbooks, most likely from his homeschooling. There are photographs taped to the wall from various trips. There’s one with Luhan pretending to fall over in front of the Tower of Pisa, and another of him making a goofy face in front of the Eiffel Tower. Sehun does not appear in many of the photos. He was probably the photographer for most of them. The only one he does appear in is a rather young one when Luhan must’ve been five. They are sitting together on a Merry-Go-Round ceramic horse. Luhan looks excited while he waves excitedly to the photographer. Sehun looks worried he’s about to fall. 

Sehun might have tried to kill Luhan, but there was no evidence in that room Luhan was ever anything but loved.

Back at the station, the Chief wants you to be the one to interrogate Oh Sehun. Yifan would usually have done it himself it he hadn’t received the injury.

The interrogation room is dark except for the single glaringly bright light bulb trained down the center of the table. The light is so strong, you could bind yourself looking directly at it. The heat asserts pressure.  Interrogation is all psychological warfare. The surrounding darkness is supposed to make the suspect feel isolated. He knows he is being watched but all he sees is his own reflection when he looks at the window. He is seeing what  _ they _ are seeing, whoever  _ they _ are--the suspect does not know. Studies have shown that mirrors keep people honest. They make one feel self-aware, but that sort of thing didn’t really matter when it came to psychopaths.

“Who’s doing the psych-eval?” you ask Chief Kim. Chief Kim is a thin wiry man with rectangular black frames and an all-knowing cat-like smile. No one would’ve suspected that such an unassuming guy closed over a dozen murder cases in his career. 

“Bastard isn’t nervous at all,” Jongdae grumbles. 

You are both watching Sehun. He sits completely still as he stares at the one way window. His expression is blank, one of boredom. Normally a suspect who feels nervous will tap his fingers, bob his knee, or lean back in his chair. Some will walk around, stretch, even do push-ups to show off just how  _ not _ nervous he is. The more movement, the higher the anxiety, but Oh Sehun looks like he is about to fall asleep.

“He’s not a psychopath though,” Jongdae says. “I’ve seen my fair share of them, and he doesn’t fit the checklist, but no conclusions yet till we get a full psych eval. Delusional sure, but that doesn’t really narrow it down much. Anyway, be careful. We’ll be watching.”

“I will.”

You head inside with a folder. The most important part is to appear calm and collected. Do not hurry. Take your time. You greet him. “Good afternoon Mr. Oh. Before we get started can I get you something to drink? Perhaps a glass of water?”

“No thank you.”

“Very well.” You place the folder down and open it while you take a seat. The chair makes a loud screeching sound as you push it back. You straighten the papers. “I just want you to know that this conversation is going to be recorded.”

He shrugs.

“Let’s begin then with the elephant in the room. Why did you attempt to kill your son?”

“I told you before. I had to. It was the best thing to do. It still is.”

“Best for who?”

“Best for him. The world won’t understand. The world doesn’t deserve him.”

You listen to him without reacting. “Have you considered how Luhan might’ve felt about the matter? Maybe he did not want to die.”

“A parent has to do what is best for his child, even if the child doesn’t like it.”

“I want to ask you about Luhan’s mother and your late wife, Li Shao-Ming.”

“She wasn’t his mother. Luhan’s mother died when he was four. Shao-Ming was her cousin. I don’t know where his biological father is. Shao-Ming told me he had another family and as soon as he found out she was pregnant, he disappeared and was never heard from again. Apparently the shame of it killed her. She hung herself,” Sehun relates these facts casually and with little emotion.

“And what happened to Shao-Ming, your late wife?”

“She died.”

“Poor Luhan. To have both his mother figures die within two years. You must’ve been very distraught.”

He shrugs again. “It was a long time ago now. I don’t really remember it anymore.”

“How did she die?”

“The police said it was an accident. Or…” he says with a frown, “do you think I killed her too?”

“Did you?”

“No. I did not kill my wife,” he snaps. “And if you’re going to make all these accusations I want my lawyer present first!”

“Why did you lie about meeting with Hong Minha?” You pull out the sheet of paper with the transcript involved. “You were questioned two weeks ago about Hong Minha. The officer asked if you knew her. You said, and I quote, ‘no, we never talk.’ The statement given by your son speaks differently. He said that she would come by your house every monday and tuesday. We managed to get the neighborhood security camera footage and have ascertained that this statement is true. On those two days in question, Hong Minha came to your house for approximately one hour and then leave afterwards. She had been doing this for the past six months. There is a time stamp on her car pulling in and out. Can you explain that to me?”

“She wanted to talk about God and the Bible.”

“She didn’t have any other intentions for visiting?”

“I don’t know her intentions, but that’s what we discussed when she came. She wanted to keep the meetings a secret.”

“Why? Is her husband the jealous type?”

“How should I know? She never talked about him.”

“Did she ever try to seduce you?”

Sehun grimaces. “No.”

“Have you ever gone to her home?”

“No.” He is getting impatient now.

“Are you sure? Eventually we’ll able to double check.”

“I’m sure.”

“So you have no idea who would’ve wanted to murder her?”

“Maybe it was her husband. Hong Minha might have seemed like a good housewife, but she was a pervert.” He said the last word with a slight sneer. “That’s why she came to my house. She wanted to learn how to stop her sinful thoughts.”

“Pervert? What do you mean?” When Sehun does not respond, you try to goad it out of him. “Did she cheat on her husband? And why should she come to you? I would think that the appropriate person to consult would be the pastor.”

He is silent out of annoyance. His eyes keep darting to the door. Finally he looks up at you. “Hong Minha deserved to die. Just to be clear, that is not a confession. That’s just the truth. She had committed unforgivable acts.”

“What sort of acts?”

He doesn’t answer. No matter what question you throw at him he remains silent for the rest of the interrogation.


	10. An Unexpected Pleasure

The hospital smells heavily of disinfect. The hallways are crowded with machinery and there are doctors and nurses in their uniforms hurriedly walking back and forth. You and Yifan move to the side while a man with a portable x-ray machine barrels down the hall. One patient stands in the hallway, holding his IV, and shouts at the nurse that it’s been three hours since anyone’s last seen him. “I’ll be right round Mr. Song,” the nurse says.

“That’s what you all say!”

The nurse ignores him and turns to you and Yifan. “Luhan’s vitals have stabilized. He went into a hemorrhagic shock earlier from blood loss, but he’s stable now. We managed to get the transfusion just in time. He’s awake, but we have him on painkillers. His vocal cords have been damaged so he won’t be able to talk to you. Even nodding and shaking his head will be difficult. Hopefully we can get him set up with a good speech therapist once he heals. I hope you won’t upset him too much with your visit...” the nurse says, eyeing you both with concern.

“No we just want to make sure he’s okay,” Yifan assures him. He looks tired. It’s been a long day. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

The nurse nods. He leads you to Luhan’s room. It’s a standard room for the ER. There’s more machinery and supplies than actual space to maneuver him in. There are three beds divided by curtain separators. Luhan’s bed is at the end. The middle one is empty and the one by the door is occupied by a sleeping man with double casts on his legs.

Luhan is awake. The TV is turned on to some innocuous cooking show. He isn’t really watching. The pain medication has made his eyes blank and unfocused.

“Hey there,” Yifan says. “How are you feeling?” Luhan looks at him but he is unable to answer. There is a thick bandage covering his neck. “I’m very sorry about what happened with your father, but you’re safe now.” He says a few words in Chinese but you don’t know what.

Luhan reaches his hand out and touches the bandage covering Yifan’s arm. “Oh that? That’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

Luhan turns his attention to you. You do your best to give him a warm smile. “Hello Luhan.”

He smiles weakly. You feel sorry for him. With his father in prison, if not for killing Hong Minha, then at least for attempted murder of his son, Luhan will most likely be put into the foster home system.

“They’ll be moving you to the children’s hospital. It’s right next door. Tomorrow morning a social worker will come and visit you to see how you’re doing,” you explain to him. “She’ll find a place for you after you recover.” 

His smile disappears.

You are not there the next morning when the social worker comes, but Yifan has volunteered to go. The Chief has let him take the day off to recover from his injury. You suspect that Yifan feels a bit like an older brother to Luhan, who like him, is Chinese in a foreign land without family to support him. He also feels obligated as a police officer who has saved the life of another. A lot of people don’t realize that you don’t just save a life and be done with it, especially not in a case like this.

With Oh Sehun in custody there’s a mountain of work to be done, but he wants you to take the day off. The Chief has sent other officers to question Hong Minha’s neighbors and the people of the church again in case there’s new information. He doesn’t want you out on the field after such an incident. “Take the day. Get your head in order. You might not think it’s out of order, but it’s out of order. Go take a walk. Eat a nice hot meal for once. Go see a friend. Hang out with that boyfriend of yours or something.”

Of course, it’s just your luck that Jongin is stuck doing dance practice in another city for some charity or other. You feel a bit bad that you have no idea what Jongin has been up to lately.

You decide to visit the old cafe where you used to work. The whole place looks different after switching owners. You decide to be decadent and order a monte cristo sandwich along with your coffee. When you turn around you realize there are no free tables.  You don’t remember the last time you  _ didn’t _ work Saturdays so you hadn’t thought of how busy the place would be.

You consider going back up to the cashier to ask them to change the order to “to go” but then you see a familiar face waving at you from one of the tables. It’s Dr. Park Chanyeol. You almost don’t recognize him outside of his suit, but he is still dressed better than the rest of the cafe patrons in a simple light blue button down tucked into black slacks, and a pair of brown leather brogues. When you walk over to his table by the window he puts his laptop back into his briefcase. He has an empty glass of fresh squeezed orange juice and a half eaten toasted panini in front of him. To the side on top of a napkin is a brown spotted banana he hasn’t peeled yet.

“Please sit down.” He stands up to offer you the seat. You take a seat.

“Good afternoon doctor.” You feel oddly nervous and shy. You are not sure what you’re supposed to say to your therapist when you’re not on the couch.

“There’s no need for such formalities,” he tries to assure you. “So you are not working today?”

“No. I was given the day off. I used to work here before I started at the police academy. The place is pretty different, but the coffee is the same.”

He nods with a smile. “It’s good to have the occasional day off. Personally I think you work too much. I only work sixteen hours a week and I already feel it is too much. I enjoy my work, but having the free time to self-reflect and to cultivate other interests plays an important part in mental health. It also allows me to become a better doctor. I admire your dedication detective, but in my personal opinion I recommend you slow down.”

“Thank you for your concern doctor but…”

“Please call me Chanyeol. You may call me doctor when I am occupying the role of your doctor, but when I am not, I would prefer if you called me by my given name. I’ve always disliked honorifics. Outside of the office I would like for us to treat each other as friendly acquaintances and such a rapport is hard to achieve if you call me something as stiff as ‘Dr.Park.’ In all honesty, such a name reminds me of my mother. She was also a doctor--a great oncologist--top of her field. She’s retired now.”

“I understand doct--Chanyeol.” He smiles appreciatively. “What about your father? Was he also a doctor?”

“Oh no. My father is a sculptor. I’ve never known him without plaster all over his hands and clothes.” He chuckles a bit at this. “They are both wonderful parents. I wish I could see them more often. Neither of them live in Korea any longer, preferring the more tropical climate of living in Thailand. I would ask you about your parents, but I suppose we should save that for one of our sessions.” There’s a twinkle of humor in his eyes.

You nod. The woman at the counter walks by with your sandwich. You thank her.

“How is work coming along? I saw the news this morning. Great job on catching the killer.”

“Suspected killer,” you correct him.

“I see.”

“I wish I could tell you more. Your experience as a forensic psychiatrist would probably be helpful, but I’m not allowed to give out anymore information than that.”

“I understand,” he says amicably. “But perhaps, if I may be so rude as to indulge in self-promotion, I could assist through a more appropriate avenue. I have done research on the psychopath myself and have consulted on numerous cases before. And as I have told you, I have plenty of free time to dispense with as I wish.”

“You want to work as a consultant?” You are taken aback.

“I am interested in this case. I am interested in you--from a professional standpoint of course,” he adds with a disarming and guileless smile.

You give it some thought. “It won’t be a conflict of interests?”

“You can refuse if you feel uncomfortable with my proposition. No hard feelings.”

“I’ll talk it over with the Chief. You should give him a call too. I can’t make any guarantees, but I wouldn’t mind it--you working as a consultant on the case. I have better faith in your abilities than for the current psychologists on-call,” you say.

“Thank you. I appreciate your confidence and I will make that call.” He smiles. Nobody should be that handsome, charming, and knowledgeable about the human mind as Chanyeol is. It's a dangerous combination. You suddenly feel wary of him. Maybe working with him is not such a good idea.

You are only three bites into your sandwich when you get a call from Yifan. 

“I need you to get over as soon as possible. I don’t care what you’re doing, just come to the hospital and come right now,” Yifan says before you even had a chance to say “hello”. 

“What’s going on?”

“Just get over here!”

You smile apologetically. “I’m sorry it looks like I have to go. It sounded like an emergency.”

“Yes please do not let me keep you any longer. It was an unexpected pleasure to meet you outside of work. I will see you some other time. I will walk you out.”

“No that’s not necessary. Someone’s going to take your table by the time you get back and--it’s really not necessary but thank you. I will see you at the next appointment or at the station. I don’t know,” you feel a bit flustered and you don’t know why.

“Very well. Drive safely and be careful.”

“I will.”

You thank him again and while you leave, you can feel his eyes on the back of your neck.


	11. Damaged Children

It takes you fifteen minutes to get to the hospital. Luhan is located in the pediatric ward and you feel melancholy walking through halls painted with rolling green hills and orange dinosaurs when in the background, there’s the strong smell of disinfectant and the beeping of medical equipment. Somewhere, you hear a woman loudly sobbing about her baby. The nurses wear colorful uniforms with bold prints. You pass by a recreation room where children, most hooked up to portable oxygen tanks or an IV, are sitting around watching cartoons in rapt attention in their patient gowns or pajamas for the ones who will be staying here longer. Some of them have lost all their hair. None of them look particularly depressed by the situation and are, oddly enough, enjoying themselves whereas some of the adults accompanying them have grim tight expressions.

Luhan’s room is down a hallway of cartoonish giraffes and elephants. You see Yifan standing outside waiting for you as you approach.

“What’s wrong? Did something happen? I got here as quickly as possible,” you say, seeing the distressed look on his face. He looks slightly unkempt. He still has a hint of bedhead and there’s stubble growing around his chin and jaw.

“The government wants to send Luhan back to China.”

“What?” you ask, shocked.

“Turns out Oh Sehun brought Luhan here illegally. On paper, he’s not even his legal  guardian. Explains why he had him homeschooled. Makes it look like a damn kidnapping case in my opinion. China will probably treat it like one anyway. So the Korean government wants to send him back home. Problem is, he’s got nowhere to go. No family listed, unless they find his biological father or some distant relative, but what are the chances they’ll even want to take him? The father sounds like a major asshole in my opinion. I don’t think Luhan would want to live with him anyway. The social worker says he can stay for now since he’s an important witness to a murder case, but who knows what’s going to happen to him once it’s all over.”

“That’s terrible but unfortunately there’s nothing we can really do about it,” you say regretfully.

“Actually I called you here because of something else. The doctor says Luhan is free to go by tomorrow. He’s not fully recovered but with hospital beds being in demand, they want to free up space as soon as possible. ‘Free to go’ I guess is a euphemism for ‘get the hell out of here.’ The social worker wants to put him in a foster home. I was thinking of taking him and letting him stay with me for awhile.”

“What? Are you serious?” you ask in disbelief.

“I’m serious.” Yifan rubs the stubble on his chin. “I’ve been thinking about it last night. This whole situation is going to ruin his life. You don’t know bad it is for foster kids. Luhan’s Chinese. You know as well as I do that the Chinese are looked down upon in Korea. He doesn’t have a proper education. He’s got no parents. His supposed stepfather or perhaps kidnapper is a suspected murderer who also tried to kill him too. All sorts of rumors are going to follow him wherever he goes. You don’t know how cruel adults and kids can be. I never told you this before,” he says, “but I used to be a foster kid.”

“You were? But you mentioned growing up with your parents before.”

“Both my parents died when I was thirteen so I did grow up with them--for a awhile.” His lips curve into a wry bitter smile. “Luckily I had a Korean citizenship, but I was shuffled back and forth to different homes. I’m not going to go into the morbid details but it was  _ fucking _ miserable. Hell on Earth. I wouldn’t wish that for any kid.”

“I understand Yifan, but taking on a kid, especially a kid in this type of circumstance, isn’t a decision you should make lightly. There are more things to consider than how to feed him and get him to school on time.” 

“I know. That’s why I wanted to talk to you about it.”

“What does Luhan think? Does he want to go with you?” you ask with a sigh.

“He’s asleep. Apparently he had a bad reaction to one of the medications they gave him. He’s fine now, but he’s tired from being up all night.  _ I’m _ tired for being up all night.”

Yifan had been thinking about this before he even met with the social worker. You hadn’t even considered what would happen to Luhan if the government wanted to send him back to his home country. “Then you should sleep on it before you make a decision,” you say, but you already know he’s going to go through with it. It’s too important to him. You know him, but you also know he has no experience with raising children. 

“I’m sorry for bothering you and calling you all the way out here. It’s your day off. You should be relaxing. Did you eat yet? Come on, let’s go grab a bite and some coffee. The hospital cafeteria food isn’t bad--I hope. I saw a guy walking by with some decent looking  ddeokbokki on my way here. ” He yawns, running his fingers through his buzzcut black hair. 

“Actually I ran into my therapist when I was out to lunch. I had just sit down with him to eat when you called,” you tell him as you both enter the elevator. You watch the doors slowly close with a loud ding. Soft instrumental music plays in the background.

“Crap. Sorry about that. This is that Dr. Park Chanyeol guy right?”

“He offered to consult on the case. He’s thinking of giving the Chief a call.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” He stares at you incredulously.

“For me or for the case?”

“Both.”

“I think it’s fine either way.”

“You think Jongin’s going to be okay with it?”

“Okay with what?”

“This Chanyeol guy being around you all the time. You said you were eating with him?”

“I ran into him on accident. It wasn’t planned Yifan. I don’t see why Jongin would be upset over something like that.”

“Because your therapist is hot.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is he? Do you want me to set you up with him?”

He ignores that comment. “You think I can’t do a quick online search? Of course when you told me his name I looked him up. No way I’m going to let some new-age smooth talker tinker with my partner’s head without seeing some credentials and qualifications. So yeah, I’ve seen pictures of this guy. He’s no slouch in the looks department or in qualifications either. If I was Jongin I don’t think I’d be cool with my girlfriend hanging around this guy all the time.”

You roll your eyes. “He’s fine with it.”

“Only because he hasn’t seen the guy right?”

“Are all men jealous by nature?” you ask with with a sigh.

“All _humans_ are _greedy_ _by nature_ and sure, sometimes those humans are are men and sometimes that greed comes out in the form of jealousy,” Yifan says. The elevator door groans open. You both step out into a busy lobby. “But seriously, you have to tell him.”

“You mean casually mention that my therapist could moonlight as a model? I’m sure that wouldn’t raise any red flags  _ at all _ ,” you retort. “It’s fine Yifan. Nothing’s going on. We’re both  _ professionals _ .”

Yifan snorts. “Yeah okay.  _ Whatever you say _ .” 

You give him a light punch on the arm. “Shut up Yifan.”


	12. Spaghetti Bolognese

When you get home later that evening Jongin is already asleep. You find him curled up in the comforter, still in his practice clothes, which meant that he probably passed out as soon as he came home. You bend down to pick up a pair of socks he had shed on his way to the bed and put them in the laundry basket. You’re not very tired and it’s still early. You have a lot to think about so you pour yourself a glass of water and take out your reports, laying them out on the kitchen table. 

On the kitchen counter is a white take-away box with your name written on it. You open it and peek inside to find pasta bolognese from one of your favorite restaurants. Jongin must’ve bought it for you. You smile to yourself. Jongin can be very thoughtful. 

After three minutes in the microwave it’s piping hot and steaming. You set it down next to your reports and begin flipping through the papers and taking notes. The most important thing is getting the timeline right. Sometimes it isn’t about what’s there but what  _ isn’t _ there. What’s missing? Police work isn’t only the compiling of evidence and the chasing of criminals. It’s a puzzle. You get pieces of a story and you put them together into one cohesive narrative. The narrative is of paramount importance because it’s the narrative that put criminals behind bars. It’s the narrative the convinces the jury of who is or is not guilty.

You take your spaghetti with you once it is cool enough to eat and sit in front of the the TV. You turn on the news. They are still playing scenes of Sehun’s arrest. The reporters are wondering if he had murdered Kim Allison too.  They are calling him a “serial killer”. His picture is plastered everywhere. 

You blow on your forkful of pasta before taking a bite. Already there are women coming to Sehun’s defense. That’s the problem with good looking murderers. The same thing happened with Ted Bundy, a rapist, kidnapper, necrophile and serial killer. His targets were young women, and yet, somehow this did not stop the formation of a devoted cult of women who excused his crimes. The same thing is happening with Sehun. They are giving air time to these insane women who believe he’s innocent because they can “just tell by his eyes. No murderer has such innocent eyes.”

You almost laugh, it’s too absurd.

You are halfway finished with your spaghetti and getting full when Jongin appears. He slides onto the couch next to you, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

“Did I wake you?” you ask. “I can turn the volume down.

He shakes his head. “I was just taking a nap.”

“Was practice hard?”

“It was long.” His voice is deep and still raspy from sleep. The words come out slow and sluggish. “Did you have a good day?”

“I had an interesting day. I ran into my therapist at lunchtime. I didn’t get to talk long because Yifan called. He’s thinking of taking in Luhan--you know, as a foster parent. Luhan is the child of our suspected murderer and there’s been some trouble with the immigration authorities. In a weird way, I can sort of see him being a good father, but the situation is just very complicated. I’m not sure it’s a good idea, but I admire him for what he’s trying to do. We had lunch after that, and a few drinks at the bar. I was starving when I got home so thank you for the spaghetti. It really hit the spot.”

“Oh.” Jongin gives a few lethargic nods of his head. 

You consider telling him more about your therapist. It was true what Yifan had said. Jongin did not know anything about your therapist except that he is “Dr. Park.” He didn’t even know his full name let alone his age or how he looks. You did mention some concern that he was rather young, but Jongin didn’t seem to give it much thought after you assured him that despite his age, he was a very good psychiatrist. You decide not to tell him that Chanyeol is considering working on the case with you. Since it’s still uncertain and up in the air, there’s no point in getting him worked up if nothing ends up happening.

“Do you think you’ll ever want children?” Jongin asks. You are caught off guard by his question. He had never brought up children before. Marriage, you both had discussed countless times but not children.

“I don’t know if I want children.”

“Why not?” he asks.

“I just can’t imagine it. I’m so caught up in work and you’ve got your dancing that there’d be no one to take care of the child.”

“Well obviously, one of us won’t be working as much.”

“You mean me?” you say, a little resentfully. “Because I am the mother, I should be the one to leave my career.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said with a long drawn out sigh. “Police work is dangerous. Something could happen to you. You’d be living for more than yourself after you have a child.”

“I am already living for more than myself,” you say in disbelief. “I’m not in police work for the money or recognition. I want to make a difference. I want to save lives. How can you accuse me of living selfishly and only for myself?”

He is awake now. You can see how tense he is, you can feel how tense  _ you _ are, like two bristling animals getting ready to fight. You hate how whenever you two are alone now that’s all you do. Bicker. Argue. Fight. You don’t know why it always ends up this way and you hate it.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says again.

“But that’s what you said.” Realizing that the argument would only escalate from there, you decide to back down. You’re too tired. Gentler, you tell him, “I know what you meant. I’m sorry. Right now I don’t have the luxury of thinking about children. Maybe someday in the future. I think I’m going to go to bed now.” You stand up and plant a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you again for the spaghetti. It was delicious. I’m going to save the rest for tomorrow.” You put the container back into the fridge. The fork makes a long clanking sound as you drop it into the sink.

“I want to have children,” Jongin declares while your back is to him.

You don’t answer him and head to the bathroom to shower. You act as you though you didn’t hear him. The water is scalding on your back.


	13. Exordium Maximum Security Prison

There’s a loud commotion at the department as soon as you walk in. A group has formed near the Chief’s office whispering and peering in through the glass. At first you thought something important had happened: a new murder or maybe a federal investigator had come to talk to the Chief, but instead you see Park Chanyeol standing in his office. They are talking to one another but you can’t hear what they’re saying.

“Who’s that guy?” one of your colleagues asks another.

“New consulting psychiatrist I think. Kind of young though right? Some people really do have it all don’t they? Tall, good-looking, good job, and rich too. I wonder if he’s single?” one of the girls says.

You are not interested in joining in on the gossip and hurry away before they manage to rope you in. Luckily no one except Yifan and the Chief knows Chanyeol is your therapist. After setting your belongings down at your desk you head to the breakroom.

Yifan is already inside shaking out packets of sugar into his mug of black coffee. When he sees you come in he’s unable to hide a smug grin. “Looks like it’s going to be a fun morning,” he says. “Everyone’s been asking about the guy since he came in. Did you see the crowd surrounding him? I bet he’ll have a fanclub by the end of the day. You want to be president?”

“Stop it. It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

You give Yifan a shove with your elbow. He almost spills his coffee. “You’re testy today,” he remarks.

“How are you doing with the foster situation?” you ask, changing the subject as you pour coffee into your own mug. Due to the excessive amount of coffee consumption, the department had asked everyone to bring in their own cups instead of using the disposable ones in order to cut costs and save the environment.

“I’m working on it,” he grumbles. “These things take time and a lot of paperwork. I’m going to head over to the hospital at lunch to talk to Luhan. Want to tag along?”

“I would but I have a feeling that I’ll be busy today,” you say and right on cue, the Chief pops his head into the breakroom.

“There you are. Dr. Park wants to head out over to the prison to do the Psych Eval on Oh Sehun. They’re giving us the green light to go this afternoon. I want you to go with him since you’re familiar with the guy.”

“Oh Sehun or Dr. Park?”

“Both,” Jongdae says matter-of-factly as he fixes his glasses.

Yifan snickers into his coffee. You glare at him. “Chief, I’d prefer not to go there.”

“To the Exordium Prison?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re acquainted with the Chief Forensic Psychiatrist there. You’ve been there before. You know the proper procedures in case of an emergency or evacuation. I know you might be uncomfortable, but you’re best suited to accompany Dr. Park.”

You are hesitant to accept, but finally you resign yourself. “I understand.”

Chanyeol is standing and waiting by your desk. Yura from HR is chatting him up while batting her eyelashes furiously. You aren’t sure what they are talking about, but Yura is laughing a little too enthusiastically at something Chanyeol has said. With a sigh you go over there and interrupt them.

“Dr. Park? Are you ready to head over to the prison?” you ask in as professional and cordial a tone as possible.

“Yes I am quite ready,” he tells you.

You insist on taking your car because as impressive as Chanyeol’s imported ferrari is, it’s not exactly a car one should leave all alone in the parking lot of a prison. He doesn’t argue with you and slips into the passenger seat of your eight year old used Hyundai. His very expensive smelling cologne fills the car and his fine Italian suit clashes with the cheap and worn down upholstery of the seats. You notice there are browned leaves on the floor of the seats and you wonder when was the last time you really gave your a car a good cleaning. And here you thought that as long as the car isn’t filled with fast food wrappers like Yifan’s then it’s “clean”. Chanyeol, as polite as ever, takes no notice of the untidy surroundings.

You both make small talk about office politics at the department on your ride over. Chanyeol says the pettiness isn’t so different in the medical sector. “We also have our cliques and social hierarchies. Us psychiatrists are seen as eccentrics. I remember during clinical rotations I had an attending physician tell me that psychiatry is the worst field to go into if one wanted to be popular with women. No one enjoys being psychoanalyzed by their date.” Chanyeol laughs at this.

“I can’t imagine it’s very difficult for you to find a date.”

“Oh finding dates is not the difficult part. It’s keeping them that proves a challenge. Does that surprise you? You don’t look as if you believe me.”

“I don’t.”

He laughs in response.

The Exordium Maximum Security Prison is located just outside of Seoul. You have to take the highway past several fast food stops to get there. It’s surrounded by twenty foot high walls along with a second barrier of chain link fences. The top of the walls are covered in barbed wire. There are cameras everywhere. No one has managed to escape the prison in the past hundred years.

After you two pass through metal detectors you are both pat down for contraband. Once in the clear, the guard gives you a visitor’s badge to pin to your chest. A familiar face comes to greet the both of you. The Chief Forensic Psychiatrist of the Exordium Maximum Security Prison looks more like a salesman than a doctor. You’ve known Kim Junmyeon for several years now and he hasn’t aged since. For a man who spends the majority of his time in a prison, he is rather vain.

“It’s nice to see you again Y/N. You’ve grown into quite a beautiful woman.” Junmyeon grins. He turns to Chanyeol. “And you! I know you! You’re Dr. Park Chanyeol! Yes, I’ve read all your papers. Astounding work for someone so young. Would you like a tour of the prison?” he asks Chanyeol.

“If it is not too much trouble.”

“No not at all. Exordium prison has four wings. It’s a fairly large prison. We have three hundred beds here. Exordium is one of the most secure prisons in the country. There are cameras and security monitoring the halls 24/7. The outer locks for the corridors are electronic but the inner corridors and the inmates’ cells are opened and closed by key.”

They walked down one of the hallways. “Over here down this hallway are inmates who need to be isolated. It has four levels. The first is for those with psychiatric illnesses such as schizophrenia. The next level are the mentally challenged inmates. We used to call them ‘retards’ before everything started to become politically correct. On the third level we have the sex offenders. As you know, rapists and pedophiles tend to be targets for the other inmates so for their own safety and the safety of the guards who must come between those fights we keep them separate as well. That is where our friend Oh Sehun is.”

“But he’s not a rapist or a sex offender, at least it hasn’t been proven yet,” you tell him.

“Well, word has gotten around he attempted to kill his stepson. For a lot of inmates that’s good enough. Child murderers are rather low on the social hierarchy around here.”

 

And the fourth level? You mentioned there were four levels.” Chanyeol says.

“Ah yes. That’s where we keep our most prized inmates. The notorious psychopaths--all serving life sentences--all highly dangerous. But to be honest with you, there is no reason to separate a psychopath from the general inmate population, so we don’t for many of them. The ones kept here are part of a treatment program. I am not sure if you know, but my life’s research is to find a cure for psychopathy.”

“Yes I am well-read in your works. I own your book on psychopathy and paraphilia. I am also interested in your opposition to Hare’s psychopathy checklist. I believe I read somewhere that you were creating your own checklist.”

Junmyeon grins from ear to ear, clearly pleased. “Yes, yes I am. Along with my hopes in finding a cure, I am also attempting to revise the standard methods of diagnosing psychopathy.”

“I am glad that you two have so much in common but we would like to go see Oh Sehun now,” you tell Junmyeon.

“Still as impatient as ever. Yes of course. Right this way.”

“I am curious as to how you two know one another? You seem to have more than just a passing acquaintance,” Chanyeol asks.

Junmyeon opens his mouth to answer but you interrupt him before he can get the words out. “We don't know one another. He is being overly familiar.”

Junmyeon laughs. “You are entirely right. I am being rude with my familiarity. Do forgive me. I apologize. Now let me show you to the room where you can conduct your interview with Oh Sehun. I’ve had one of the guards bring him out already so he should be waiting inside,” Junmyeon says.

After you reach the end of the corridor he pulls out a set of keys and turn the lock. “We will be watching of course. There is an alarm button by the door that you can press should anything happen and the guards will be right down.”

“Thank you. I will keep that in mind,” Chanyeol replies.

“We will be in the other room,” you tell him. “Are you ready?”

He smiles at you. “You needn’t worry about me. I am used to dealing with criminals.”


	14. Sins of the Father

You are watching the interview from a rather cramped viewing room. Multiple grayscale screens have been set up to view the interview from all angles. There are time stamps in the corners of the screens. In a counterintuitive way, the cameras are there mainly to protect the inmates rather than the staff.

The microphones are loud enough for you to hear the groan of the chair when Chanyeol pulls it back to take a seat. There is an unnecessarily large square table in the interview room. Junmyeon explains that there have been inmates who are known to “fly off the wall” and the table is intentionally large to give the interviewer enough time to get to the alarm button before the inmate reaches him. Guards are standing in the hall outside but because the walls are soundproof and there is no way of looking in except through a small glass on the door, the alarm lets them know there is something terribly wrong.

“It’s happened to me several times,” Junmyeon tells you when you ask about the excessive size of the tables. “During my student days when I was doing research for my doctorate’s thesis I came here to interview inmates. I wanted to ask them questions while having them hooked up to an EEG to monitor brain waves to look for biological evidence of psychopathy and I had one inmate lunge at me. Luckily the table was just  long enough that he could not reach me, but by the time I reached the door he had me by the throat. Luckily I had managed to hit the button. The guards came rushing in and they beat the man with a stick until he let go. It was one of the most frightening experiences of my life. If the inmate had wanted to, he could’ve snapped my neck then and there. When I started working here,” he says with a wry smile, “the first thing I did was request them to order larger and longer tables.”

After some hesitation, you ask, “Did the Gardener ever do anything like that?” 

“The Gardener? Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. No, he did not. For the most part he was a perfect gentleman.”

You return your attention to the screens. Chanyeol does not look at all worried. He is sitting at the table, one leg crossed, and his hands folded onto his lap as if he is about to perform a therapy session. You admire his cool professionalism. Regardless of his talent and intellect, Chanyeol is still inexperienced in his profession and you feel a bit nervous for him.

A guard brings in Oh Sehun and not until he is sitting down does the guard take off his cuffs. Chanyeol introduces himself. Sehun merely sneers nastily at him.

Junmeyon clicks his tongue. “The preliminary health screening mandatory for all inmates before entering the prison shows that he is both mentally and physically healthy; however I cannot attest to anything conclusively because proper evaluation takes time. There’s a very long process involved. I can’t officially declare anything as of yet without the Board of Ethics jumping down my throat. A thorough test hasn’t been performed yet, but in my experience and I’m sure in yours as well, Oh Sehun is clearly not a psychopath,” Junmyeon remarks casually.

“I never said he was a psychopath,” you tell him. “We only want Dr. Park’s opinion on whether or not Oh Sehun is capable of committing murder. He’s already booked for attempted murder of his stepson, but right now we want to pin him for Hong Minha’s death.”

“How are you doing by the way?” Junmyeon asks.

“Me?”

“It’s been a long time since we’ve last seen each other.”

You listen as Chanyeol begins reading off the list of standard questions from a sheet of paper. Sehun looks terribly uninterested. Junmyeon lets a short snorting laugh. “I remember you were just as stubborn in your own assessment.”

“I’d rather not talk about the past,” you say, crossing your arms.

“You brought up the  _ Gardener _ ,” he points out.

“Let’s forget about it. I want to hear what they say.”

Chanyeol has finished the standard questions used for assessing whether Sehun currently had or is currently having either suicidal or homicidal intentions. Once it’s clear that he does not, the interview become more relaxed and informal.

“I read in your report that you got into a fight with one of the inmates on you first day here. It says in the report that you threw the first punch though the other inmate had taunted you first,” Chanyeol says. “It also says here that you tried to bite off his nose.”

Sehun snorts. “It’s a prison. If you let one guy disrespect you everyone’s going to disrespect you. I agree that biting his nose off seems like I was going overboard but you have to go overboard. These guys here, the only thing they know about me is what they see and that I’m here because of attempted murder of a kid. And if you look at me, you can see I’m  _ not much _ .” Sehun shrugs. “I’ve always been a skinny guy. I’ve always been a computer guy. I can’t fake muscle but I can fake crazy and in most cases, muscle is no match for crazy.”

“You seem to have given this a lot of thought. Did you expect to end up in prison one day?”

“No. You don’t need to be a criminal to plan for these kinds of scenarios. It’s like wondering what you would do if you won the lottery. I’ve thought about that and I’ve never even played once.”

“Fair enough, but it seems like it didn’t work out since you were transferred to a different wing for your own protection.”

“Turns out the guy was well connected and I had pissed his gang off. It would’ve worked otherwise.” Sehun doesn’t seem to think it was much of a big deal that he was almost murdered in his first week of prison.

“Let’s talk about Luhan,” Chanyeol says rather out of the blue. Sehun stiffens visibly. He straightens in his chair and his features become rigid. Chanyeol obviously notices this. “Do you care for your stepson?”

“Of course I care about him,” Sehun snaps testily.

“He is a bright boy isn’t he?”

Sehun seems to relax at this. He nods agreeably. “He’s very smart. That’s why I didn’t put him in school. The school system would’ve only stifled his creativity and hindered his education. I didn't even want to take him out of China. I think a place like Beijing is more beneficial than being in Seoul. The young people are more competitive. It’s not that I think the Chinese are better than Koreans, but there’s more of them so just by sheer number, there’s more competition for Luhan--but the company wanted me back here.” Sehun frowns as if annoyed by the remembrance.

“But you tried to kill him anyway regardless of this bright future you foresee for him.”

“I wanted to save him. He needs me, and if I’m not around…”

“Why do you think he needs you? You said yourself he is very bright. He’s still young and his brain is elastic. He can adapt quite well even if his entire life is uprooted.”

Sehun’s expression darkens. “He needs me!” Sehun snarls. “You don’t know anything about him or us!”

“Why don’t you tell me then? I would like to understand.” Chanyeol’s manner is open and friendly. He even gives a small encouraging smile.

Sehun seems to deflate in his seat. His eyes go blank. “You don’t need to understand anything. I have nothing more to say.”

Back in the viewing room, Junmeyon lets out a sigh as he shakes his head. “He was like that when I first spoke to him. If you pry him too hard about his stepson, he shuts down and refuses to speak. Otherwise, he can go on and on about other topics. Sort of reminds me of your father when he was an inmate here. The Gardener loved to talk, but not about you, but unlike Oh Sehun over there, your father was a true psychopath.”

You don’t look at him. You keep your eyes on the screen. “I know,” you say.


	15. Cleanse and Pollute

It rains as you are driving down the highway. The droplets fall in wide circular splatter patterns upon the glass. They break apart like fragile translucent flowers. The prison is far behind you now and Seoul’s gray skyline looms in the distance.  The radio is playing soft melodious piano music. Chanyeol catches you looking at him from the passenger’s seat.

“You are tense,” he observes.

“I don’t like prisons. I don’t like the rain either. It has a tendency to wash away evidence.” The windows are beginning to fog up due to the combination of your body heat and his. You turn on the fan. The air that comes out smells dusty and stale.

“How very unromantic of you. Others like to believe that the rain cleanses the pollution of the world as well as the soul.”

“The rain cleanses nothing. It only moves the pollution out to sea. Just because you move it from one place to another where it can be hidden doesn’t it’s no longer there or that the polluter is now absolved of guilt.”

He smiles with amusement. “You are a very intense individual. You take everything very seriously. It’s an admirable trait, but I imagine it must be very stressful for you to live that way.”

“Are we in therapy right now? I don’t want to see a bill in my mailbox the next morning.”

He laughs. “No we are not in session right now. We are just two friends talking frankly to one another, and if I may speak frankly, I am worried about you.”

“Worried about me? What for?” you ask, your grip tightening on the steering wheel.

“You look increasingly on edge. I can tell you haven’t been getting enough sleep. You are too reliant on coffee to get you through the day and you have been putting off our scheduled therapy sessions.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Do you still have dreams about Hong Minha?”

“They aren’t dreams because I am not asleep when I have them,” you say.

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t have them about Hong Minha anymore. I have them about Kim Allison now. Most of my time right now is spent trying to close Hong Minha’s case, which is why I think I see Allison more."

"Tell me about them," he says.

You are at first reluctant, but then with a sigh you tell him. "Sometimes in the middle of typing up reports, I see her from the eyes of her killer. I see her heading down the street. Her hair flows with the wind. I see the calf muscles of her legs flex when she walks in her high heeled shoes. She turns around and catches me looking at her, but instead of fear, she smiles. Her teeth are very even and white. Her gums are a bright red pink. Her skin is radiant, like milk and honey. She seems so vibrant and  _ alive _ that it’s breathtaking.”

“Do you believe this murderer had lecherous intentions?” Chanyeol asks, raising an eyebrow.

He is so intrigued by her description that he reaches for the dial and turns down the volume of the car radio. Now there is only the sound of the rain pitter pattering upon the roof of the car. There is something about the rain that closes out the rest of the world. It was like being a child again and hiding with a friend under the blankets. You felt like whispering, and the words that would come out would somehow seem more important and more mysterious. Even with other cars on the road, it’s as if you and Chanyeol are the only two people left in the world. The feeling of intimacy makes you slightly uncomfortable.

“He is assessing her and admiring her, but it doesn’t feel lecherous. It feels as if I’m a master chef on a farm watching the livestock run around in the fields. He looks for only the best of the herd--the cream of the crop. I am grateful for her existence, but I know that I will eventually take her life.” Upon realizing that you had begun to refer to the murderer as yourself, you frown. “I meant that he knows that he will eventually take her life. He doesn’t feel guilty that he is killing someone so young, healthy, and with such a bright future. In fact, I believe he chose her because of it.”

“It is interesting that you liken him to a chef.”

“He’s an artist,” you say. “I remember you said your father was a sculptor. I believe the killer is a bit like a sculptor, but instead of picking out the best marble for his next statue, he picks out flesh.”

Chanyeol smiles at that and shakes his head. “What a morbid imagination you have, but I understand it. In my line of work I often find myself imagining the world through the eyes of some of my patients and their neuroses.”

“Do you imagine the world through my eyes?” you ask, looking at him. He catches your gaze and holds it. His eyes are a light brown like a glass of honey held up to the sun.

“Never,” he says in a low voice and a playful smile.

“Are therapists allowed to lie?” you ask, turning your attention back to the road. The asphalt stretches on and on. You feel as though you have been driving for awhile but Seoul gets no closer.

His laugh is throaty and deep. It is a chuckle with a smirk. “Right now I am not your therapist and you are not my patient.”

“Then what are we right now?” 

When you glance at him you see that he is leaning on an elbow and looking out the rain streaked window. He is no longer smiling. “I wonder,” he murmurs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to add "slow burn" to the tags.


	16. Kim Allison's Back

You are sitting at your desk at the department when Yifan drops a newspaper in front of you. His hair is disheveled, a sign that he’s been running his fingers through it out of stress.“That asshole reporter Byun Baekhyun is at it again. I should wring his scrawny neck for this! Blood sucking parasites! The whole lot of them!”

On the cover of the tabloid paper  _ The White Rabbit _ is a huge blown up picture of Luhan in a deer caught in headlights expression. He is his hospital gown and his neck is heavily bandaged. The headline read “Oh Sehun, sex trafficker?”

You skim through the article. Somehow Baekhyun had discovered that Luhan was not legally adopted and was making all sorts of insinuations about sexual abuse and child prostitution. By the end Baekhyun openly criticizes the government for not putting a stop to sex trafficking as if he actually cared about the issue and wasn’t writing about it purely to sell papers.

“This is what I’m talking about. This is the kind of garbage that will follow Luhan around for the rest of his life. God if I could sue this bastard.” You agree with him but there is little you can do. The article makes no direct claims so it's difficult to sue for libel. “He's been snooping around here too lately. The Chief said he called earlier and wanted to get in touch with us about the case.”

“No thank you,” you say with a grimace.

“That's what I said, but not as nicely,” Yifan replies with a dry smile. “Just keep an eye out. You haven't known this weasel for as long as I have. He’s a persistent bastard and will do anything for a story. Once caught the guy snooping through my damn garbage can on the curb.”

“I'll be careful.”

“How was the trip to Exordium by the way?” 

“Fine. The report should be available soon. Oh Sehun wasn't as talkative as I would’ve liked but Dr. Park is making several more trips. We should have a fuller picture of his personality soon.”

“That's not what I mean. Did he--ya know, put the moves on you?” Yifan asks with one raised brow as he looks around suspiciously in case anyone was listening. 

“Is that a serious question?”

Yifan clears his throat. “He asked about you the other day before you arrived.”

“He did? What did he ask?” You are taken aback. You still think of Chanyeol as your therapist and your initial reaction is to wonder if he had been trying to do research on you. Your second reaction is more in line with Yifan’s, but you refuse to believe that someone as handsome and accomplished as Chanyeol would take anything more than a platonic or, more specifically, an intellectual interest in you. Now that you give it some thought, that is most likely what’s happening. Chanyeol must be interested in your ability to put your head in the head of a murderer’s.

“Nothing too weird. He just wanted to know what you were like. I told him you were a hard ass in heels. He liked that--even laughed. He wanted to know how you were doing--like emotionally and stuff. Told him even on a case like this one you’re tough as nails. Told him that in our partnership, you’re the level-headed one.” Yifan hesitates for a moment, thoughtful. “He said you weren’t always and told me to take care of you. I mean sure he’s your therapist, but that’s a little familiar don’t you think?”

“I don’t need to be taken care of.”

“That’s what I told him! As your partner I always got your back, but the reason I trust you as a partner is because you can take care of yourself.”

You look at him, a little surprised. “Why Yifan, that has to be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he replies with an offended scoff.

“Oh I don’t expect to.”

He gives you a playful kick on the leg and you return it back and forth until someone comes by to interrupt your shenanigans. 

“If you two don't stop I'm going to have to send you both to the corner for a time out,” Chief Kim retorts as he walks over. Clipped under his arm is a legal size brown envelope with leg your name printed on the front in a rather fancy gothic typescript in Romanized English letters though the address of the police station is still written in Hangul.

“Fancy, what is that?” Yifan asks.

“Looks kind of suspicious right? Went through the scanners just fine. No metal.” Jongdae gives the envelope a few shakes. You hear paper moving within, too heavy and small to be standard paper.

You take the envelope, tear it open, and out falls a stack of Polaroids. They are numbered.

“Holy shit,” Yifan exhales. “It's Kim Allison.”

A chill runs down your spine. On the Polaroid labelled “ONE” you see a picture of Kim Allison’s as she walks down the street. You feel sick to your stomach. 

“Before anyone touches anything else we’re going to dust for prints.”

While someone brought out the fingerprint kit, you are looking at the pictures. They're numbered in chronological order. The only person who could've taken these pictures is the killer. The others are also beginning to figure this out. Yifan curses under his breath.

“Why would the killer send you this?” Yifan asks. “It doesn’t make sense. I’m the one who’s mentioned in the press for the handling of the Kim Allison case. Did they show you on TV?”

“Briefly. A few seconds while I was walking past the tape,” you answer. 

When the dusting was done you pick up the pictures and you lay them out properly in order. One is missing. Number four. Here is a list of what is captured in each polaroid.

  1. Allison’s back as she walks away in a short strappy dress and long heels.
  2. In the same dress and shoes, Allison is tied up and blindfolded. She is lying in a fetal position on the ground. The ground is covered with the black plastic tarp to hide any identifying markers.
  3. Allison is naked now and lying on a table covered with the same plastic. Her eyes are wide open with fright but she is unable to move. Lying across her stomach are a set of dissection tools.
  4. Four is missing
  5. Allison is dead. Her eyes are closed and you can see stitches across her abdomen. The killer had sewn her back up and cleaned her off so no blood is present on the body.
  6. The last polaroid is a picture of Allison inside the display.



“This crazy fuck!” Yifan spits. “Where the hell does he get off doing shit like this? Jesus Christ! Why did he send you this? And why the hell is the fourth one missing?”

“Four is probably a picture of the stomach. The stomach is his trophy. It’s common for killers to hold onto a trophy,” you explain, but you aren’t entirely convinced. The killer already had the stomach. Why would he need to keep a picture of it too? “But this is a good thing. The killer wants to be noticed and we’ve noticed him. Killers who show off like this are easy to catch.” Your voice is cool and calm as you attempt to approach this logically, but your insides are twisting like a pit of snakes. Your collar is soaked with sweat.

“Hey Y/N, look here. There’s a piece of paper stuck inside the envelope,” Jongdae tells you. You reach in a pull out the slip and read it outloud:

> _ “Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, `and what is the use of a book,' thought Alice `without pictures or conversation?'” _

“Oh  _ fuck me _ ,” Yifan mutters.


	17. Eat Me Drink Me

_ What is the use of a book without pictures or conversation _ ? 

The message is for you. The killer wants to talk to  _ you _ . He has provided the pictures and now he wants the conversation. You put the slip of paper back down and take a deep breath, clearing your mind. You can’t get a clear picture of this guy. You feel his presence. You know he’s there, smiling at you, but you can’t see him. All you see is an overwhelming darkness and the closer you get to it, the deeper you sink.

But why you? Why you and not someone else?

“Hey are you feeling okay?” Yifan asks you, his brows furrowed in worry.

“Don’t play into his sick twisted game,” the Chief says, putting a supportive hand on your shoulder. “Chin up detective. We’ll find this guy. They always slip up sooner or later. Why don’t you take the day off?”

“Okay.”

Yifan looks a little surprised. You can tell he knows it must be bad if you didn’t even try putting up a fight about taking time off. “Do you want me to drive you home?” he asks.

You shake your head. “No I’m fine. I just… need some time to really--I can drive.” You attempt a reassuring smile. Neither of them look entirely convinced but you busy yourself by packing up your things and turning off your computer. It’s chaos in your head but you make a show of remaining calm. Eventually the Chief leaves you alone to look into the sender of the pictures. 

Yifan walks you to your car. The sky is a cloudy bluish gray and you feel a light drizzle of rain hit your face, but it’s not enough to go through the trouble of taking your umbrella out of your bag.

“You sure you don’t need a ride? You look deathly pale.”

“I’m sure.”

“Alright… but try to get some sleep or maybe call up that therapist of yours. Get something to eat. You’ve been looking pretty gaunt lately,” Yifan says.

“I’m fine,” you tell him, but you don’t feel fine at all. Your stomach feels queasy. When was the last time you ate? All you remember is drinking cup after cup of coffee. How many cups was that today? Three? _Four_? You tell yourself that you will grab a granola bar on your way home.

It rains harder on the drive back. The streets are littered in brown and yellow leaves. They clutter up the drains, leaving large puddles of rotting foliage and garbage collecting at the end of sidewalks. Sometimes you miss the countryside where you grew up. You miss the trees and all the greenery. Everything in Seoul is so cold and so gray. The unforgiving lines of the buildings, the smooth hardness of the asphalt, and the way the cars clog up the arteries of the streets until you feel that one day the city will fail like an overworked heart. You look upon the meaningless billboards selling their unattainable dreams in flashing neon and they hollow you inside out.

Your apartment building is just as drab. The sight of the feeble dying plants hanging on the balconies make the whole place look even more pathetic. You don’t even bother with an umbrella as you get out of your car. The rain wets your hair and shoulders as your hurry into the building. The rug in the entrance is stained with tracked in wet grime. The striped floral wallpaper, which at one point was probably white, is now yellow and peeling and covered in bug splatter.

The light on the stairs blew out a long time ago and the manager has yet to replace it so you make your way up carefully while holding onto the sticky wood rails. The hallway to your apartment is empty but you can hear the vibrating bass of someone playing music. It sounds like a sinister heartbeat.

You take your keys out of your purse but upon inserting it into the keyhole you find the door unlocked. Had you forgotten to lock it this morning? Maybe Jongin was home. You push the door open. It’s dark. Maybe you really had forgotten to lock it. Yifan was right. You  _ do _ need to get some sleep and some food in you. Despite the shabbiness of the building, there’s never been a crime committed in your building so you aren't too worried about someone having broken in to steal something--not that there really is anything to steal. The most valuable thing in your apartment is probably the computer and even then, it was an older model not worth the effort of stealing to resell.

Your hand gropes along the wall for the light switch and then you head into the kitchen for a bite to eat. There are probably still some leftovers from last night in the fridge if Jongin hadn't eaten it already. You stop dead in your tracks as you enter the kitchen area. You hadn’t noticed it first, but you see something unusual on the table.

A gourmet meal has been set out for you. On a plate is piece of meatloaf cut in half sitting in a puddle of deep red sauce that reminds you of the color of red beets. The outside has a perfect sear and a sprig of parsley and green onions sits as garnishes on top. Along with the meat is a few stalks of roasted asparagus. Next to the plate is a corked glass bottle of a deep red wine. A paper tag hangs around the bottle’s neck and another card sits up on the table in front of the plate.

_ “Eat Me _ ,” the card reads.

Your hands are shaking as you reach over to the bottle. “Drink Me,” is printed on the tag. You pop open the cork and immediately your nose is assaulted with the metallic scent of blood.

You faint. Your skull hits the kitchen floor with a loud bang that reverberates down your spine. The bottle has fallen with you onto the linoleum floor and you see the blood seeping towards you. Everything goes black.


	18. What Will You Do?

You awake with a jolt and a gasp when catch sight of a dark figure looming in front of you. “Who are you? Where am I?” you murmur, your eyes blinking rapidly to adjust to the dark room. Your head is pounding and your heart is racing. It feels like someone had just taken a baseball bat to your skull. You clutch the covers to yourself as you try to make out the figure.

It’s only Jongin. He’s in the middle of changing his shirt.

“It’s me, and you’re in bed,” Jongin says. He pulls his shirt off and tosses it into the hamper before opening the wooden drawer to fetch a new one.

“I’m in bed?” You massage the bump on your head as you try to remember what had happened. That’s right, you had fallen after you had opened the bottle of blood. “Why am I in bed?”

“To sleep?” Jongin says with a lazy grin.

You stare at him in startled confusion before you throw off the covers and climb out of bed. You’re in your pajamas, but they aren’t your regular pajamas. You're wearing the white lace nightgown that you only wore on special occasions. Jongin watches with a puzzled frown as you stumble out of the dark bedroom. Worried, he follows after you. You head directly to the kitchen.

The plate and the bottle are still on the top of the table, but both are empty now. Someone had eaten the meat and drank the bottle. The card and tags are gone. There is no blood on the floor. Someone had cleaned it up.

“Jongin don’t tell me you ate what was on the table,” you say, the beginning of a full on panic attack starting to swell from deep inside your abdomen outwards until you need the support of the chair to keep standing upright.

“I didn’t touch it. I thought you had got something for yourself for dinner. It smelled good, but by the time I got back there wasn’t a bite left. Are you sure you didn’t eat it and just forgot?” Jongin asks, rolling his eyes. He isn’t taking any of this seriously. You’re too scared to tell him the truth.

You grab the bottle and smell it. It doesn’t smell like blood anymore, but regular red wine.

“What time did you get home?” you ask him.

“An hour ago.”

“And you found me sleeping in bed?”

“Yeah… what’s wrong? You’re acting pretty weird. Did you have a bad dream?”

You stare at him with, unblinking, while your brain goes into overload. “Someone was here. Someone was waiting for me. I-I need to call the police.”

“Wait, what? The police?” he asks as you push past him to reach for your phone.

Your first call is to Yifan. “I think Kim Allison's murderer was just in my apartment,” you tell him. “Don’t ask me any questions. I’ll explain later. Just send a team over here--and forensics, send the forensics team over here.” Your cover your eyes with your hand, trying to quiet to pounding inside your skull. “Oh and in case I forget, remind me that I need to see a doctor.”

“A doctor? The forensics team? What’s going on? There was a murderer inside our apartment?” Jongin asks, clearly alarmed now. You sit down on the couch and bury your face in your hands with a pained moan. He continues to ask you questions but it goes in one ear and out the other. You don’t even really hear him because right now, your mouth tastes a lot like metal.

The police arrive minutes later. Yifan finds you in exactly the same position. Jongin is pacing back and forth.

“What happened?” Yifan asks in a gentle voice as if he’s trying to talk a cat out of a tree. When you don’t say anything Jongin does his best to repeat what you had said and how you had behaved, giving a full account of the moment he got home to when you woke up and started acting strangely. You finally look up when Jongin tells Yifan that before he got home he had gone out to dinner with his parents.

“Your parents? You had dinner with your parents?” you ask.

“Uh yeah we went to get lobster. My dad just got a promotion and he wanted to celebrate. I called you but you didn’t pick up. I guess you were asleep,” he says while raking his fingers back and forth through his hair. You also see for the first time that Jongin’s hair is no longer black. It has brown streaks in it. Granted they are dark and hard to notice without direct light, but how could you not have noticed that he dyed it before?

“So what happened?” Yifan asks, turning towards you. He has a notepad out and is scribbling notes rapidly.

“After the Chief told me to take the day off, I headed straight home. So it was probably around one in the afternoon. I put the key in but the door was unlocked. I wasn’t worried about it. Sometimes one of us will forget to lock the door. It doesn’t happen very often, but it does happen from time to time. When I got inside, that’s when I saw the food laid out. It wasn’t made in this kitchen because there was no lingering smell.” You explain about the cards and the tag. “They were handwritten this time, not typed up. I opened the bottle first. It looked like wine, but… when I smelled it, I smelled blood. At that point I passed out. I dropped the bottle and I hit my head on the kitchen floor. The blood spilled all over the place. The murderer was either waiting inside the apartment or near it because he must’ve come and cleaned it all up and then after that...” You stop talking. You can’t bear to say it outloud.

Yifan nods, finishing up his notes. “Jongin why don’t you take her to the ER. If this is part of a crime scene I can’t leave it just yet. I’ll stop by and check up on you later and give you an update.”

You nod. Jongin quickly goes to grab a long wool coat to cover you up. It's only then that you notice the clock. It’s only eight, but it feels like it’s the middle of the night.

Jongin drives. You both sit in silence, him concentrating on the road and you staring out the window, your gaze unfocused and noticing only the brightening and dimming of yellow lights as you pass by the street lamps. The car is a little chilly. There’s the sound of honking in the distance.

“Are you okay?” Jongin asks. He sounds so unsure and hesitant, as if he’s talking to a stranger.

“What if I’m not okay? What will you do if I told you I’m not okay?” you ask him.

“I’d do anything for you,” he says. You see the way his grip tightens on the wheel and the way his back straightens.

The problem, you want to tell him, is that there might not be anything he could do for you.


	19. Pink Swirl

At the emergency room Jongin fills out your information while you take a seat. Upon finishing he grabs two pairs of face masks from a carton of them on the desk and hands you one. Everyone in the emergency room is wearing one. It’s flu season. You put it on. There’s an elderly woman across from you who has blood running down her pantyhose. She is clutching her pink purse tightly on her lap as if someone will snatch it if she isn’t careful. You wonder her family is. Next to her are two children, their faces glued to their handhelds while their parents are arguing in some foreign language.

At some point Jongin falls asleep in his chair. You have always envied his ability to sleep anywhere. There’s a TV in the waiting room. They are still playing news on Oh Sehun. One of the reporters are interviewing the president of his fanclub, a very unpleasant woman in her early thirties who supposedly has all sorts of evidence and proof that Oh Sehun is not Hong Minha’s murderer. Usually in this sort of case the public are quick to condemn the accused, but when the murderer is an attractive young man, things can get a little tricky. There’s all sorts of people calling into the station making up false testimonies about his innocence or guilt. It just makes the work that much more arduous and time consuming.

“Parasites,” you mutter under your breath. They force themselves into a situation they don’t belong. They’ll say anything to be a part of the narrative, to be a part of something cool, interesting, and new. Parasites.  _ Leeches _ .

Your phone begins to vibrate in your purse. You fish it out expecting it to be from someone in the department but instead it’s Chanyeol. You glance at Jongin, who is still completely knocked out, and you get up and head to the bathroom to take the call.

“Hello?” you ask.

Your own reflection in the mirror looks terrible. You turn on the sink and splash some cold water onto your face in hopes it’ll liven you up.

“Detective Wu called me and asked me to check up on you. He told me what happened at your apartment.”

“He must be worried to do something like that,” you say vaguely.

“He sounded worried. I’m worried too.”

“I’m in the emergency waiting room, so there’s nothing that can be done right now. I hit my head. I’ll feel better once I know if I have a concussion or not.”

He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. You wait. Finally, “If possible, I would like to schedule a session tomorrow. The sooner the better.”

“If you insist.” Though you answer that way you do want to see him. You want to tell him everything. If anyone would understand it would be Chanyeol.

“I  _ do _ insist. If you’d like I could come to the hospital to keep you company. Are you alone?”

“No, Jongin is with me. I’m fine. Thank you for the offer, but you don’t need to go out of your way for me.”

“Good. It’s better to not be alone during such a stressful time. Please call me as soon as possible to confirm the time best for you.”

“Will do doctor.”

You linger for a little longer in the bathroom after the call is over. Someone is pounding on the bathroom door. “Just a minute!” you shout. The pounding stops. You feel nauseous and you lift up the toilet seat and wait. It doesn’t take long and soon your are bent over thirty-five degrees your whole body heaving as you retch and cough up the contents of your stomach. The vomit hitting the water makes a disgusting plopping sound. Blinded by your own tears, you grope for a paper towel to wipe your mouth and then another one to wipe your eyes.

The vomit in the bowl is a bright foamy pinkish red. You see chunks of undigested meat floating in the pile. Out of breath you suck in gulps of air and you head to the sink and splash more water on your face.  In the back of your head you know you should take a sample, but you’re too afraid of what it’ll mean so you flush the toilet. You leave the bathroom and pretend it never happened.

When you  return to the waiting room Jongin is still asleep. The woman with the bloody pantyhose is gone. There’s a stain on the cushion of her seat. 

It’s past midnight when you are finally taken to one of the beds, and then you have to wait another thirty minutes until one of the doctors comes to see you. He asks a few questions about your medical history and then gives you a short neurological exam that tests such things as your vision, hearing, and hand eye coordination. This will determine if any part of your brain is suffering from injury.

“We’ll do a CT scan to be sure, but you seem all right. The scan is really just to see if there’s any fractures on the skull. I’ll write you a prescription painkiller. Go home, get some rest, and make sure to sleep on the side without the bruise. A nurse will get you an ice pack and then you’re good to go home. Be sure to get a follow up with your general physician, and if there’s anything wrong, come back immediately,” he says. “Is there anything else you need? Questions?”

You hesitate indecisively and then shake your head. “No that will be all. Thank you doctor.”

When you get back to the apartment it’s as if nothing strange had ever taken place. The plate and bottle are gone. Everything is back to normal. Jongin is tired so he immediately climbs into bed. You lie next to him staring at the ceiling. He’s trying his best to stay awake.

“Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you,” Jongin murmurs while he runs his fingers through your hair. You want to tell him that something has already happened, but you know that would be a mean spirited thing to say.

“Do you remember before we started dating?” you asked him. “You were just a guy who never ordered coffee at a coffeeshop. Remember how we didn’t like each other?”

“That was all you,” Jongin says with a snort. “I liked you a lot.”

“No you didn’t. You told me to my face that I was… what was the word? Oh right, ‘a cold-hearted bitch.’”

He laughs quietly. “You were damn frustrating and it was because I liked you so much that I kept getting mad. It was like everything I did wasn’t good enough. I tried my best to be nice to you, and you just looked me up and down like I was trying to swindle you or something. You called me a creep.”

“You stalked me,” you point out.

“I wasn’t stalking you! There was a weird guy following you home! You told one of your co-workers about it and I was worried about you so I just wanted to make sure you were safe.”

“You scared the living daylights out of him. You almost punched him, remember that?”

“I remember.” Jongin laughs. “By the way, who was that guy anyway?”

“I don’t remember.” That’s a lie. You do remember. The guy wasn’t so much a stalker as he was a journalist looking for a story.

“Oh well, it doesn’t matter now. He’s history.” Jongin pulls you into his arms and plants a few wet kisses on your neck.

“Not right now,” you tell him. “I have a splitting headache and I smell like the hospital.”

He nods with a quiet laugh. You can tell he’s too tired anyway. Soon Jongin falls asleep. The aspirin you had taken has yet to kick in so you climb out of bed to get a drink. Yifan calls you. It’s already 3 a.m.

“How was the visit to the doctor,” he asks, no apology no nothing. He knows you better than you know yourself so of course he knows you would also be awake at this hour.

“Just a bump. No concussion as of yet. You called Dr. Park?”

“Yeah. I hope you didn’t mind.”

“No. I’m glad. I’m going to see him tomorrow.”

“Good. I want to tell you something, but I don’t want to freak you out and I was considering waiting till tomorrow to say anything but…”

“Just tell me.”

“There were some leftovers on the plate. The forensic guys could tell immediately that it was human DNA, and one look at the cells under the microscope showed that it’s definitely stomach cells. There was also definitely blood in that bottle too, but it was diluted with wine. We won’t be able to confirm anything more till morning when they finish running the tests, but so far… it’s undoubtedly Kim Allison’s.” 

Your stomach churns. You begin to feel sick again. “Thanks for telling me. Goodnight Yifan.”

“Goodnight. Get some sleep okay?”

“You too.”

You both know neither of you will sleep a wink.


	20. A Question of Why

When you arrive at the psychiatry office Chanyeol is dressed as sharply as ever and greets you with that pearly white grin of his. It feels like an entire lifetime ago since you last saw him. You’re exhausted from a long night of tossing and turning and it took you three cups of coffee just to even crawl out of bed.

“How are you doing?” he asks. He makes no comment on the dark circles under your eyes or how haggard and run down you look.

“More or less fine. How is your report coming along?“

He smiles secretively. “That’s confidential until it’s finished, but between you and me, I’m making progress. It has been interesting meeting with Oh Sehun. He’s quite the character. It’s all very fascinating. Come in and sit down.” You both enter the therapy room. It has changed since you’ve seen it last. For one, there are new flowers. Pansies this time, and in a variety of colors sitting in a large glass vase. The paintings and furniture have also moved, not drastically, but just enough for you to feel the change.

“What’s that smell?” you ask him, sniffing the air.

“I apologize. I was burning some incense for one of my patients earlier. It was quite effective in getting him to relax but the smell is difficult to get out. I hope you don’t mind. It’s mostly just orange blossoms and camphor. Does it smell bad?”

“No, it’s just… different.”

“Let’s talk about yesterday,” Chanyeol says as he crosses his legs in his leather armchair. “I want to know what happened.”

“I think Yifan told you already.”

“I want to hear it from your perspective.”

So you tell him exactly what happened, word for word as the event unfolded up to the point where you and Jongin went to the emergency room. At that point you hesitate in the story. He urges you to continue. “You called me. I didn’t want to disturb the others in the waiting rooms so I went into the restroom for some privacy. After I hung up the phone…” You frown and then shake your head. “Yifan believes, and so do I, that the plate and bottle set out for me were the remains of Kim Allison.”

He is silent. You can’t tell what he’s thinking or feeling. You search his face but you find no signs of shock or repulsion, only the collected and concentrated look of a therapist listening carefully. You consider telling him about what you had found in the toilet after throwing up but you decide not to.

“I am very sorry this happened to you.”

You are quiet for what seems like a long time. Chanyeol prefers you to not bring your watch into sessions and since he is looking directly at you, it is difficult to sneak a peek at the clock above your head. A few minutes must have passed. You find that the incense or whatever aroma that Chanyeol had been burning earlier for his previous patient also has a relaxing affect on you.

“Do you know the story of  _ Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland _ ?”

“Yes, I am quite familiar with Lewis Carroll’s works,” he says.

“To many people his stories sound like fanciful nonsense, but Lewis Carroll wrote with logic in mind. He was a mathematician. There is a logic even if it's dressed up differently. There's sense even in the nonsense,” you explain.

“You seem well versed in literature,” he comments.

“I like art. They're windows into the mind. Art tells you so much more about humanity than mere facts--I'm sorry that must be a very strange thing to hear from a police officer. A painting for example. There's the physical reality. The paints, the canvas, the brushstrokes and colors. You see a crime scene and maybe you can work out how it's done, the pure logistics, just like you can read the brushstrokes in a painting. That’s the easy part--the safe part--the danger comes when you take that leap of faith into interpretation. When you start to ask ‘why’ instead of ‘what.’”

“‘Why’ can be a dangerous question to ask.”

“That’s your profession,” you tell him with a small smile.

“As is yours.” He returns your smile with a pearly white one of his own. “Do you feel that there is sense in the otherwise nonsensical actions of this killer?”

“For the same reason I believe the killer was trying to reach out to Oh Sehun by killing Kim Allison, the killer is trying to reach out to me with this allusion to Alice in Wonderland.”

“Does he think you are Alice? Do you feel like Alice when you enter the heads of killers? Is there logic in that chaos?”

You frown. “I hate cliches.”

He smiles. It’s not your first time noticing how straight and white his teeth are. “You do not want to be a cliche?”

“Does anybody?”

“No, I suppose they do not. Why do you think he is reaching out to you specifically?” Chanyeol asks.

“I don’t know.”

“You must have a guess.”

“He’s bored, or perhaps lonely,” you say, but then you take it back. “Psychopaths don’t get lonely. They’re narcissists. They care about no one other than themselves--they’re unable to. Bored. Yes I think he is bored.”

“What if he’s not a psychopath? Most murderers are not.”

“Most people kill for emotional reasons. No sane person kills for the sake of making an artistic statement. Murder is not protected under the poetic license.”

He smiles at that. “No you are absolutely right.” 

He insists that you continue talking about what had happened but you refuse. “I’ll talk about it after I get the lab reports. I need to make sure that the DNA really belongs to Kim Allison, but thank you doctor. I feel a bit better now that I’ve talked to you even if you don’t think we’ve gotten to the heart of the matter.”

You can tell by the slight tilt of his head that you have said more than you should have. You have just implied to him that you have been avoiding what you had really wanted to talk about.

“Maybe we can talk of it next time--the  _ heart _ of the matter,” he says, checking his watch. “Looks like our time’s up.”

“It can’t be,” you exclaimed, shocked. “It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes at most,” you say but you are quickly proven wrong when you turn around to look at the clock. Indeed an hour has passed since you arrived. 

“I’m glad, that means you are more focused on the topic of our conversations rather than the ticking minutes.”

On your way home from you pass by the newsstand kiosk to get some coffee when your eye catches on one of the tabloids on display. You see a gash of bright red across pale skin. There’s a huge blown up image on the front cover. A gruesome image of Kim Allison. An image that you cannot believe is being shown in such a public area. You quickly realize that this wasn’t just any image, it was the missing fourth polaroid.

Kim Allison is lying on the dissecting table. Her eyes are wide with terror and there is a long incision across her abdomen. The killer had stopped midway through surgery to snap the photo. He wants the world to know that he had started cutting her up while she was still alive and conscious.

**BREAKING NEWS: SERIAL KILLER CUTS UP WOMAN ALIVE**

You stop dead. You grab the paper  _ The White Rabbit _ . You look for the author’s name.

“ _ Byun Baekhyun _ ,” you hiss through clenched jaws. How did he get this picture? You look at your phone. Ten missed calls. 

Somewhere hidden in the dark corner of your mind, a voice whispers “ _ I did this for you Alice. _ ”


	21. The White Rabbit

A voicemail from the Chief tells you that the troublesome reporter has been taken into the station for questioning. The second voicemail is from Yifan. He has the preliminary results from the lab and wants you to come in right away. When you do arrive at the station Yifan is preoccupied in the interrogation room with the infamous Byun Baekhyun, a name otherwise synonymous with  _ The White Rabbit _ . The Chief lets you go to the window to watch and listen in.

Baekhyun is dressed partially business-like and partially casual. On top he is wearing a gray suit jacket and a pink button up, but on the bottom he’s wearing jeans folded up at the ankles and blue boat shoes. His appearance is rather surprising. He looks like a restless puppy, a bit mischievous sure, but harmless. But thinking that would be a mistake.

“I got it in the mail. It was in a plain white envelope, no return address. I’ve brought it today. I don’t want to be accused of  _ impeding an investigation _ ,” Baekhyun says with a shrug as he brings out the envelope from his briefcase.

“Seems to me like you make a hobby of impeding investigations,” Yifan snarls at him.

Baekhyun shrugs again. “I know when to not push my luck.”

“Do you now?” Yifan says sardonically. He puts on a glove and takes the envelope. There isn’t going to be any useful prints on it, but you understand that it’s only proper procedure. He takes the polaroid out and places it on the table. The number “4” is printed on the bottom of the picture.

“I was surprised myself when I got it.”

“What else did the killer give you?” Yifan asks.

“Nothing. Just this. No note, no nothing. I thought it was a bad joke at first. Got  _ really  _ freaked out, spat up my coffee and all that jazz, but when I looked at it a little closer I was like ‘ _ holy crap _ , that’s Kim Allison!’ I have no idea who left it for me. Can’t be sure it’s the killer now, we can’t jump to conclusions can we? So this is what I got, what do  _ you _ got?” Baekhyun asks with a sly waggle of his brows. He knows the police are keeping something from the public. A professional weasel like Baekhyun can sniff something like that out a mile away. 

“Mind your own business. Now where were you on October 6th at 8a.m?” 

“I’m not going to answer something like that without my lawyer. I’m not stupid. I fulfilled my duty as a responsible citizen of this great nation by turning over the polaroid, but I’ve got no intention of getting on the hot seat.”

“Fine, but I’m going to warn you once and for all. Stay out of the investigation. If this guy sends you anything else, don’t open it. I mean it. Let us know right away. you’re not to open it but to call us right away.”

Baekhyun sighs. “I’m going to be honest with your detective. Before you tell me I’m impeding the investigation, I just want to remind you that this is purely hypothetical. Should I receive another envelope, how am I to know it’s from the killer? How do I know this envelope is from the killer? If I’m not mistaken, isn’t the killer Oh Sehun and isn’t he behind bars? Unless… Oh Sehun isn’t Kim Allison’s killer.” There’s a sharp glint in Baekhyun’s eye now. The edge of his thin lips quirk. “I can only come to one of three conclusions. The first is that Oh Sehun killed neither Hong Minha nor Kim Allison and that you’re simply using him as a scapegoat to deceive the public for your own best interests. The second is that Oh Sehun did kill them both and these pictures are being sent from someone he knows and trusts--I admit this scenario is pretty unlikely. And the third--and I put my money on this one--is that you believe Oh Sehun killed Hong Minha but  _ not _ Kim Allison, which means there’s  _ another _ killer on the loose sending these gory pictures around the city, but for some reason the police has decided to not tell anyone about it despite what a dangerous person this other killer seems to be. I mean did you  _ see _ the picture? The guy cut her up alive!”

Yifan scowls but says nothing. He neither confirms nor denies but ignores his guesses altogether. “Stay out of the investigation and if you receive anything suspicious in the mail, contact the department right away. You don’t even have to bring it here, we’ll come to you to get it. That would be best. And  _ don’t open it _ .”

Baekhyun is smiling now. This is fun to him. “Do I not have a right to open my own mail? And should I open it and find something peculiar, like another photograph or even a letter, does that correspondence not belong to me to do with as I choose? Now, as a good citizen, I will turn it over the police, but if I choose to display my own  _ personal property _ to the public, it’s perfectly in my right to do so and you can’t charge me for that.” Baekhyun crosses his arms with a smug look on his face.

Yifan grinds his teeth, but Baekhyun’s right. It’s within his rights to open his own mail.

When Baekhyun comes out he grins upon seeing you. Immediately he leans on arm against the wall when talking to you. “What a pleasure to see you again!” he says, his tone dripping with honeyed charm. “Too bad you weren’t here earlier. It would’ve been a much better experience if the cop drilling me was as cute and pretty as you.”

“Anything I say will be off the record. Do you understand?” you say.

“Sure.”

You take a deep breath. “This is a very serious situation. I hope you will be more careful about what you publish from now on. I am not advising you because you are inconveniencing the progression of the investigation--though you are--but for your own safety. A psychopath of this caliber may have used you to cause a sensation over Kim Allison’s murder, but he’s unpredictable and the next time he uses you, it might not be to your benefit. It’s in everyone’s best interest to catch him. I hope you will cooperate with the police Mr. Byun.”

“As stiff as ever,” Baekhyun says with a beguiling tilt of his head. Sometimes it’s hard to imagine such a ruthless journalist was the same age as you are. “You need to loosen up. So I guess this is confirmation that there  _ is _ a second killer?”

“I am only telling you so you’ll understand what a precarious situation you’re in. And I repeat, everything I just told you is off the record. You will not be publishing anything I say.”

“I won’t. I’ve got journalistic integrity you know.” He grins. “We should get some coffee sometime, talk about other things  _ off the record _ . Just you and me.”

“No thank you. I’m very busy. You should go home Mr. Byun.”

“Oh alright,” he says with a childish whine. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

“Even more reason you should be careful about what you write,” you remind him.

He just smirks as he makes his way out of the station. Two officers follow him to make sure he makes it to the door without snooping around.

Yifan is in the break room helping himself to a beer. He normally never drinks at work, but no one blames him after an encounter with Baekhyun. Seeing you, he reaches into the mini fridge and pulls out another beer for you. “Here you’re going to need it.”

You pop the top on the counter and take a swig. The amber liquid rushes down your throat and leaves your stomach with a warm glow and a fermented sour aftertaste in your mouth.

“I can guess already,” you say. “The DNA belonged to Kim Allison rght?”

He nods, taking another few gulps from his green bottle. “There’s more.”

“More?”

“Your saliva was on the utensils, the plate, and the bottle.”

“That’s impossible. I was knocked out.”

“That’s what I said. The killer must’ve set it up to look like you had been eating. The lab guys think that… well…”

“Just tell me. I can handle it.”

“Well… they think that you…”

“Killed Kim Allison and then ate her?”

“No!” he protested, shocked. “They definitely don’t think you  _ killed _ her. That’s preposterous. They think you might have… eaten the food set out by the killer on accident. You couldn’t have known beforehand what it was made of.”

You think about what you saw in the toilet at the hospital. The lab is right. You did ingest the food that was laid out. Had the killer set it up to look as though you did and then force fed you? Was it possible to force feed someone unconscious to that extent? You know about feeding tubes, but the nutrition is always liquid. How could the killer get pieces of meat down your throat without you chewing it and swallowing it yourself?

After a long moment of silence you take another sip from your beer. “I don’t remember touching the food. I only remember smelling the bottle, but I guess that’s how this whole thing works. It’s my word against the evidence.”

“No one thinks you’re guilty of anything,” Yifan assures you. 

“I know. Thanks for the beer.” You pour the rest of the bottle down the sink. “I had better get to work.”


	22. Nature or Nurture

It’s six in the morning and you had just gotten up to make yourself your first cup of coffee when your phone vibrates on the kitchen counter. It’s from an unknown number. As soon as you answer you hear a voice you don’t recognize. A woman is asking if you would like to do a TV interview on the prime time late night spot during the evening news.

“What’s this about?” you ask, confused. “There’s nothing I have to say to the press about the Hong Minha or the Kim Allison case.”

“No, no, I don’t mean that. We want to interview you about your father.  _ The Garderner _ .”

You hang up the phone immediately. As soon as you do it rings again. More unknown numbers. You let it go to voicemail. Your phone continues to ring and the missed number of calls climbs higher and higher while you sit and stare at the coffee dripping into the pot.

Someone rings your doorbell, making you jump out of your seat. The peephole shows that it’s Chanyeol. He’s holding a newspaper under his arm. You are so stunned to see him there that at first you can’t do anything. You stand perfectly still, holding your breath as if that would make him go away, until he rings again. Finally, you work up the nerve to open the door.

“I’m not dressed,” you tell him. You’re still in your pink flannel pajamas and slippers. “What are you doing here so early in the morning? I’m sorry I’m very confused right now. Would you like some coffee?” You immediately turn and head to the cabinets to grab a mug.

“No thank you. I apologize. I tried to call beforehand, but you weren’t picking up your phone.” You glance at your cellphone. Twenty seven missed calls. It must’ve gotten lost in there somewhere. “I know this is terribly intrusive and I’m very sorry if I’ve overstepped my boundaries, but I saw this this morning and I thought you needed to see it.”

He hands you the paper. You stare. There are two pictures edited to sit side by side. On the left is you. It’s a cropped out picture of your police academy graduation photo. On the right is your father’s mugshot. His sudden appearance makes you gasp. You haven’t kept any photos of your father. You have not seen his face in a long time. Mixed and contradicting emotions hit you all at once, leaving you slightly breathless and faint.

“I’m afraid it’s that  _ White Rabbit  _ again” Chanyeol tells you. 

**NATURE OR NURTURE? DETECTIVE Y/N SHARES BLOOD WITH NOTORIOUS SERIAL KILLER**

> While the police have Oh Sehun (30) under the charge of attempted murder of his stepson the police have been unable to tie him to the murder of the two women Hong Minha (28) and Kim Allison (18). There has been speculation that Oh Sehun might have nothing to do with the two murders and the police are only using him a scapegoat to cover their own ineptitude. After all, as you know, this reporter has received a gruesome photograph recently. If Oh Sehun really were the murderer, who sent the photo? I can only believe that the real murderer is still at large. And will it take a third victim for the police to finally do their jobs?
> 
> Chief Kim Jongdae of Seoul PD Homicide Division tries to reassure the public by saying ‘we do not know if this is the work of a serial killer or not.’ Typical PR answer. The case of the two murders is being led by Wu Yifan and Y/N. Y/N is the young darling of the force. She’s young, pretty, and sharp as a whip, making her a welcome addition to an otherwise male dominated field, but what’s a girl like her doing in such a gritty career?
> 
> Y/N was raised by a divorced single father, a small town environmental lawyer known for protecting local farmers from corporate bullying. She may have inherited his sense of justice, but behind Dr. Jekyll is Mr. Hyde. Y/N’s father was the notorious serial killer known as  _ The Gardener _ , an ironic but apt name considering his profession. He had murdered six young women five years ago by burying them alive. Once dead, he would dig them back up and use their bodies to grow plants and flowers. A complete psychopath.

He was someone that the entire town respected. Anyone who knew him could never have imagined such an ‘upright citizen,’ as one co-worker put it, to commit such horrible crimes. This was a man who had enough charm and chiselled good looks he was considered his hometown’s own Wonbin. Apparently justice was served as one year after being given a life sentence at the Exordium Maximum Security Prison, he was killed in a dispute with one of his inmates. 

In the aftermath of such tragedy and scandal, it is surprising then, to learn that current Chief of Homicide, Kim Jongdae was the  one who recommended Y/N to enter the Police Academy and then join the force. I am going to leave it to the professionals, but in this journalist’s humble opinion, hiring the daughter of a serial killer seems like a risky move, especially if the father was a killer hiding in plain sight. 

When you’re finished you take a seat. You don’t reread it. The whole article is complete and utter trash, but your father’s empty black eyes look into yours. He is smiling in the photo. Your father has always been a charming man. Even when the judge sentenced him to life in prison and the jury cried out for his blood he never changed. 

“Is any of this true?” Chanyeol asks.

“The part in the beginning is all speculation,” you say. You are annoyed because Baekhyun had technically not published anything that you had told him off the record. “There’s no libel lawsuit if that’s what you’re asking. The part about my father is true.”

“This man is your father? Pardon me for saying this, but he’s quite a handsome man.”

You pour yourself a cup of coffee and sit down. Chanyeol takes the chair across from you. His legs are very long and his knees almost touch yours. You realize he is quite a bit taller than Jongin. The sight of him in your kitchen in his heather gray suit is more surreal than awkward. You don’t even care that he is seeing you in your pajamas.

“I remember on one of the days of the trial when he came out of the courthouse someone had thrown a rock at his head,” you say with a weary sigh. “He started bleeding from the forehead, but my father continued to smile and wave as if he were the Queen of England. He ran his fingers through his hair as if the blood was styling gel. I remember a lot of women approached me at the time. They wanted to tell me my father was innocent. They wanted to get closer to him, to get to know him. He had always been very charismatic. You know how Oh Sehun has many admirers despite his crimes? My father’s followers were worse.”

Chanyeol nods sympathetically. “I really am very sorry for bothering you so early in the morning. I know it was very rude of me. I just saw the newspaper and I had to find some way of seeing if you were okay. Are you… okay?” he asks.

You look up at him from beneath your lashes. Your thumb rubs back and forth on the porcelain of the coffee mug handle.

Jongin comes into the kitchen. The commotion has awoken him and you can see that the sight of Chanyeol has left him frozen in shock. You quickly turn the newspaper over.

“Jongin this is Dr. Park Chanyeol. He’s the psychiatrist I’ve been telling you about,” you say.

Chanyeol immediately gets up and offers his hand to shake, but Jongin just stares at him in disbelief. “Your psychiatrist?” he says dumbly.

Chanyeol withdraws his hand and gives him his best professional smile. “I came across an item in the newspaper that I thought important to show your girlfriend. Well, I will be taking my leave now. I apologize once again for the intrusion. Be careful out there,” he says to you. “The media are all hawks. And it was nice to meet you,” he says to Jongin. 

You see him to the door. He bids you goodbye and leaves. You close the door and then lock it. You’re a bit afraid of turning around to see Jongin’s reaction, but when you turn around you see Jongin reaching into the fridge for a banana milk.

“I wasn’t expecting him to come,” you explain. “Actually Jongin, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

He looks up at you with suspicion and dread.

“It’s the reason Dr. Park came over this morning and I wanted to tell you before you see it for yourself all over the newspaper.”

“What is it?” he asks with a frown.

“My father was the serial killer known as  _ the Gardener _ .”


	23. Purgatory

Jongin stares at you, incredulous. You pick up the newspaper and turn it over for him to see and hand it to him. He reads it quietly. It takes him a long time to finish it and when he is done he examines the two pictures side by side. Even you can see the physical resemblance between yourself and your father. You both have similar eyes, round but sharpened upwards in the corner--not like that of a cat’s, but more like that of a predatory bird’s. Your father can make such features masculine and charming, but you end up looking too serious and dour.

“Jongin?”

He sits down at the table and puts the paper down next to him. “How come you never told me?” He is angry. Resigned, but angry.

“I’m sorry. The timing was never right and it’s always hard to tell when to bring these things up, and as time went on I thought I didn’t want to think about it anymore. I wanted to put that part of my past far behind me, but I guess it was naive of me to think that it wouldn’t eventually catch up one way or another. My father committed unspeakable crimes.“

“I knew one of his victims.”

You look at him, eyes slightly widened. “You did?”

“She was a girl in my high school arts program. Her family had some money problems and moved back to the country to live with her grandparents. She cried during her last day at school because she wanted to be a photographer, but her family had pawned her camera equipment for a bus ticket.”

Various images flash through your mind’s eyes. Red pilled sweater. Slate blue knee length skirt. A beat up pair of white sports sneakers. Skinny legs and knobby knees covered in neon pink bandages. Shoulder length black hair with straight bangs. Traditional. Your father first saw her wandering around the train tracks holding her fingers up to imitate a camera’s rectangular frame. Her eyes had lit up when she saw your father smiling at her.

The wolf had eaten prince charming and was wearing his face.

You remember her fingernails were chipped and chewed down to uneven nubs and you remember because she was one of the first ones you found in the garden.

“Oh,” is the only thing you can manage to say.

A series of loung bangs at the door makes you both jump. Jongin heads to the door and looks through the peephole. “It’s the building manager,” he says with a frown.

He lets him in. The manager has seen the paper. He’s worried about reporters and journalists staking out the building and other potential curious visitors. He tells you both to be careful, and more than once, expresses how unhappy he is with the situation. You nod politely at his words, but you’re not really paying attention. You’re thinking about Jongin’s classmate.

After the manager leaves, Jongin turns to you with a serious look on his face. “When will you be seeing your psychiatrist again?” he asks.

“We have a session tomorrow.”

“You should find a new psychiatrist,” he says.

“Why?”

“What kind of psychiatrist comes to visit his patient’s home at six in the morning? Isn’t he being overly familiar? Is he even qualified? He looks inexperienced. And who the hell is all dressed up at this hour? Don’t tell me he got dressed up to look nice _just_ to warn you about something in a newspaper you were going to find out later anyway. Don’t you think it’s just an excuse?”

Jongin is not a morning person, so along with being woken up too early, the disturbance of seeing a stranger in the apartment, the lecture from the building manager and the news about your father, saying he’s in a poor mood would be an understatement. You know he’s annoyed and you know he’s just looking for a reason to be stubborn.

You want to tell him that Chanyeol was probably already dressed before he saw the paper, and compared to his usual attire, he was hardly dressed up. He was wearing a button up and slacks, but he didn’t even have on a tie. The collar of his shirt was rolled up to his elbows, which was unusual. He hadn’t even worn a jacket. His hair was completely without any styling or product. If anything Chanyeol had rushed over slightly _disheveled_ , but of course, Chanyeol’s “disheveled” was Jongin’s idea of appearing formal and put together.

“Baby calm down. It’s Saturday. Let’s go back to bed,” you tell him.

He lets out a long drawn out sigh, but Jongin isn’t going to refuse an offer to go back to sleep. He thinks he does his best thinking while asleep. You climb back into bed with him. Immediately when his head hits the pillow Jongin is out like a light while you lie there staring at the ceiling. The light comes in in vertical stripes along the blinds by the windows. You can hear birds chirping outside.

You see the girl again in your mind’s eye. Jongin’s classmate. You know all the victims and you know them all so well. You used to see them through the eyes of your teenage self, and the girls always looked like girls you wished you could’ve been friends with, but now you see them through the eyes of your father.

The girls all looked so innocent, but you know they were not. The girl who was Jongin’s classmate, she liked fire a little too much. She thought the sight of living creatures burning to ash was very beautiful. Your father tried to fix her, but why couldn’t he understand that people couldn’t be fixed? Maybe he did understand. Maybe that’s why he chose her for his garden. “What can’t be used must be recycled,” your father had told you when he first taught you about respecting the earth’s limited resources. You were probably six or seven then. “It’s the circle of life. You take from the earth and then you give back to the earth. In the days of Adam and Eve, the earth just gave and gave and gave. Man was not obligated to give anything back. That’s what they call paradise--an eternity of _taking_ . That is the picture of heaven. And the church calls such people _pure_ and _innocent_.”

You were not sorry when your father was killed in prison. He would not have wanted you to be sorry for him. He took, and was taken in turn. That was the circle of life. He had already made peace with his death long before it happened.

But you haven’t. You haven’t made peace with anyone or anything. You were stuck.

You go to the kitchen and pick up your phone. There are a dozen more missed calls. You head to your contacts. Chanyeol is listed as “Dr. Park” and you decide to call him.

His voice always sounds much deeper over the phone, like he is simultaneously too close and very far away.

 _“_ I wonder if this is what purgatory feels like,” you say to him. Before he can say anything back you hang up the phone. Your missed calls count climbs up by one. You return to bed.


	24. The Last Supper

Despite Jongin’s protests, you go ahead and follow through with your appointment with Chanyeol the next afternoon. The pleasantries are kept short when you arrive. You comment on the weather and he asks about your drive. He does not ask you about the strange phone call you made to him yesterday. It’s just as well. You don’t think you could provide any adequate explanation even if he did ask. 

You notice that the flowers have changed again, this time to white and blue daisies. The same scent of orange blossoms and camphor lingers in the air. There is a strange smokiness to the therapy room. It feels a bit like stepping into another world.

“What would you like to talk about today?” Chanyeol asks. As soon as he sits down in his leather chair, he is Dr. Park and Dr. Park is aloof and detached. 

“Considering all that’s happened, you’re not going to ask about my father?” you ask. You’re lying down on the couch. You didn’t get much sleep last night so you’re too tired to put up any pretenses. Your fingers are folded over your abdomen and your eyes are fixed on scenic painting on the wall, a print of Monet’s  _ Bridge Over a Pond of Water Lilies _ . It’s framed to appear as if you are looking through a window.

“Only if you want to talk about your father.”

After a few minutes of silence, you begin. “I have a memory of my father taking me to Milan to see  _ The Last Supper _ . My father had a passion for art and  _ The Last Supper _ was his favorite. I was really young then, probably about ten years old. I liked Italy for the food. The architecture too was pretty amazing. I liked the castles. They seemed to me like something out of a fairy tale. The museums and paintings, as a child, I thought those were very boring. Do you know the painting?”

“Of course. Leonardo Da Vinci’s masterpiece.  _ The Last Supper _ depicts the last meal Jesus shared with his apostles before his crucifixion,” he replies.

The therapy room is a contrast of light and dark. Bright white light glares in through the partially covered windows, but they do not reach the couch. You are cast in the dark side of the room while a halo of light seems to surround Chanyeol who is facing away from the window at his seat.

“That painting meant a lot to my father. He often took trips to go see it. He usually went by himself. I didn’t like the crowds or the heat so I usually stayed at the hotel during the summers in Europe and ordered room service and watched TV with the air conditioning on. I would order gelato and cannolis and watch soap operas I didn’t understand a word of, but I do remember that first time he took me to see that painting, and I only remember it very well, not because I was particularly impressed with the painting, but because of what he told me.”

“What did he say?” Chanyeol asks.

You take a moment to try and recall the exact words. “He said, ‘During the last supper, Jesus predicts that one of his apostles will betray him. There are many paintings of the last supper, and in those, it is plain which one is the traitor. In those paintings, Judas is always sitting away from the group or painted in darker and more sinister colors, but not in Da Vinci’s  _ The Last Supper _ . Can you tell me which one in this painting is Judas?’ I looked at the painting and shook my head. I remember my father had a very big smile on his face. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘They are all pointing and accusing one another. They don’t know--they can’t know--because people, whether they’re good or bad, all look the same. That is why Da Vinci is a genius and we’re standing here today to look at this painting while all the other ones are forgotten.’”

“Do you think that your father was referring to his own situation?” Chanyeol asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe. It sounds like he is, but that’s not really how I see it. Jesus predicts that one will betray him. There is anger and fear in the painting. ‘Who is the traitor? Who can be trusted?’ But sometimes that suspicion turns inwards. ‘What if it’s me?  _ What if I am the traitor?’ _ They realize they not only know nothing about their fellow men but also nothing about themselves.” You pause for a moment, ruminating in the silence. “Only God knows the future. You can believe what you want about life and about yourself, but life never plays out the way you expect. Sometimes you react in ways that seem out of character. One day you’ll wake up and not recognize yourself. ‘What happened to the person I used to be? Where has she gone?’ Questions like that aren’t uncommon. I’ve seen criminals who were surprised by the crime they’ve committed. Friends and family say things like ‘he would never do something like that, he’s a good guy!’ The criminal can’t believe it either. ‘This is not like me!’ he says while holding the blood stained knife.”

You think about Kim Allison and how her remains had been sitting and digesting in your stomach before throwing it up in the hospital toilet. All evidence pointed to you eating it intentionally, even if in ignorance. You yourself don’t remember it that way, but how can anyone be absolutely  _ sure _ ?

Chanyeol doesn’t respond immediately. When he is serious his eyes go narrow. There’s no longer the bubbly good humor and friendliness that you’ve become so accustomed to outside of his office. He is dissecting your brain so slowly and so carefully you don’t even realize he’s already cut into you.

“Are you afraid of losing control?”

You return his stare. “I guess so. I wasn’t thinking of it that way, but you’re probably right. Isn’t that anyone’s worst nightmare? To realize you’re not the person you thought you were?”

“Or when the people you care about and respect turn out differently.”

“Like my father.”

“Yes. Did you know your father was a serial killer?”

You are quiet for a long while. The clock ticks loudly above your head.

“If you met my parents and you had to guess which was capable of murder you would’ve thought it was my mother. She’s a narcissist. After my father was caught she spent the next few years milking the media for fame and money. She had a book out about him. It’s because of her book deals and television interviews that she doesn’t have to work anymore. She just lives on those royalties. My mother never treated me well. She took out her anger and fear of growing old and alone out on me. She was a mean and vain woman. She still is, but except for my brief stay with her after my father went to prison, I never saw her again. I couldn’t get out of her house fast enough. My father was always the kind one, but I knew there was something not quite right about him. I didn’t know he was murderer, but I  _ suspected _ . I probably could’ve easily ascertained the truth, but I was in denial. I turned a blind eye to it because I loved him and he loved me. It was only when I was faced with the bodies that I was finally forced to face the truth.”

“The bodies?”

You don’t elaborate. The minutes continue ticking by. You can see the bodies in your mind. They are as vivid as if you had just happened upon them yesterday. You don’t realize how long you’ve been silent until Chanyeol makes a show of looking at his expensive luxury watch.

“Well it seems like our time is up for today,” he says. 

After setting a tentative date for the next session, Chanyeol walks you down to your car.

“Are you busy tonight?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good. I was wondering if you would like to have dinner. I have reservations to a new restaurant opening downtown. The chef is a former patient of mine. I expect a spectacular meal, but it is a shame to not have anyone to share it with. It was a late notice after he received a cancellation.”

You frown. “Why are you asking me?”

“I assure you this invitation is purely platonic. Dinner really is  _ just  _ dinner. I am a bit of a gourmet so I assure you that I am led by no other ulterior motives than by my desire for a delicious meal. Do you not trust me to be a perfect gentleman?” he asks, and then with a rather meaningful look, “Or do you not trust yourself?”

“I don’t trust anyone completely.”

“Not even your boyfriend?”

“No one,” you assert.

“Is that not a very tiring way to live your life--to spend the entire time suspecting everyone at the table of being a traitor instead of enjoying a perfectly good meal with friends? One may be a traitor, but the rest are not. There’s no need to throw out the whole vine simply because you may encounter one sour grape.”

You shake your head with a reluctant smile at his clever  _ The Last Supper _ reference. “What kind of meal will it be?”

“French. If it makes you feel any better there is actually something I would like to discuss with you in regards to Oh Sehun. You can call it a work dinner if you like.”

“I don’t think so Dr. Park.” You’re tired and all the coffee you’ve had this morning has left you with a growing headache.

“Will you call me if you change your mind?”

“Sure, if I change my mind.”

He smiles appreciatively. “Drive safely.” 


	25. Lost Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the lack of updates! I was struck down with a cold! I'm sorry for making anyone worry! I am all better now. :)

You are staring at a glass of bubbly golden liquid. For a moment you aren’t sure what you’re looking at, but then you realize it’s champagne. Next to the champagne is a square porcelain plate of food. Fish of some sort. The plate looks like a piece of modern art. When you glance upwards you see Chanyeol sitting across from you at a white tablecloth dinner table. He’s cutting into his fish while talking.

“...as possible, a fine black suit with impeccable tailoring, the lingering scene of a masterfully crafted perfume. True luxury should be understated and subtle. It should silently seduce. It should be beautiful without drawing attention to itself.  _ Taste  _ is very important to me. Some may think it’s a very bourgeois way of living or call me ‘snobbish’ but as I’ve said, I want to live a life as full of art and beauty as possible. After all, we are only given one life. It is my prerogative to enjoy it to the fullest.”

The confusion is so overwhelming that you shut your eyes tightly. You can hear the sound of conversation all around you in the room and someone playing Chopin on the piano. You open your eyes and this time you look around. You are sitting in a restaurant. The room looks simultaneously dark and bright at the same time. Above your head is a crystal chandelier. The centerpiece of the table is a bowl of floating roses and short white candles. To your right is a basket of bread.

“I’m sorry Chanyeol, I don’t mean to interrupt,” you say.

“What is it?” he asks.

You press a hand to your face. “How did I get here?”

He stops cutting into his food and puts his utensils down to give you an inquisitive look. “What do you mean? We drove.”

“We drove? When did I agree to come?” 

“You called me.”

“I didn’t. That’s impossible,” you argue. You take out your phone to prove it and there it was, in your outgoing calls is one to Chanyeol. He had even sent you a message that he was parked outside and was wondering if he should wait on the curb or come up. You wrote back “I’ll be right down” a few seconds later. You don’t remember any of this and the longer you stare at your screen the harder it is to focus. The periphery of your vision seems to blur, or maybe it’s just the feeling of the room slowly closing in on you. This sudden attack of claustrophobia has you break out into a clammy cold sweat.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.  

“I just  _ can’t _ remember.”

He stares at you with a disconcerted frown. “What was the last thing you remember?”

“The last thing I remembered was getting into my car. I had just refused your offer to dinner and now I’m here and I don’t know how it happened. Suddenly I’m here and you’re here and talking and… what even is this?” you ask looking down at your plate.

“Salmon Trout Tartare with Pressed Caviar,” he says measuredly as he scrutinizes you. “Do you mind if I check your vitals?”

“What?”

“Mental confusion is a common symptom of infection,” he explains as he stands up and heads to your side of the table. Before you can protest he takes your wrist and gently presses two fingers against the area right beneath your thumb. He has the serious expression of a doctor. “Heartrate is elevated but still within range.” He puts the back of his hand to your forehead. “Temperature is normal.”

“People are looking,” you say, glancing around the room.

“Have you experienced anything like this before?” he asks.

“Like what?” you ask, distracted by a very well-dressed couple staring and most likely whispering about you in one corner.

“Losing time,” he replies. “Have you ever experienced losing a chunk of time like this before?”

“Not that I’m aware of--unless…” you hesitate to bring up that moment when you passed out upon smelling the bottle of Kim Allison’s blood. “I don’t remember. What’s wrong with me?” you ask, agitated by your own helplessness.

“I am wondering if it is a result of a concussion, it’s not unusual to--” He stops talking to grab your white cloth napkin and presses it to your face. “Your nose is bleeding.”

More embarrassed than anything your hands fly to your face. When you lift the napkin away you see a stain of deep red. You return it to your nose while you watch Chanyeol signal for the waiter to bring another napkin.

“Let’s go. Can you stand?” he asks. You nod, but he helps you up anyway by supporting you at the elbow. You realize that you’re wearing one of the two dresses you own, a long lace sleeved blue cocktail dress you bought for work party and a pair of simple two inch black pumps. When had you put these clothes on? Why can’t you remember? Chanyeol takes the coat you have hanging on the back of your chair and drapes it over your shoulders. He even makes sure you do not forget your purse.

Chanyeol leads you outside. The restaurant is so popular that there is a line around the block waiting outside to get in. Everyone is staring at the two of you. You still have the napkin pressed to your nose. It occurs to you that to everyone else the two of you looked like a young well-to-do couple. If only they knew, you think to yourself.

It’s already night outside. The air is crisp. It has rained recently. The concrete is a dark gray. The asphalt glistens beneath the yellow glow of the streetlights. One of the potholes nearby is steaming. Above your head you hear the whirring of some news helicopter. 

“How are you feeling?” Chanyeol asks turning to you after he manages to find the valet. He pulls your coat closed so you would not feel too cold. The unconscious gesture reminds you strangely of your father. It gives you the feeling of being a child again.

“I’ve seen better days,” you say, your voice muffled through the napkin.

Chanyeol’s attention is distracted when a car pulls up to the curb. It’s not the Ferrari from when he had come to the station to visit the Exordium Prison, but a gunmetal gray Lexus. “Where’s your other car?” you ask him.

He glances at you. “You asked the same thing when I came to pick you up earlier. The Ferrari is very much the bachelor’s car. I thought it unsuitable to escort you in.”

You nod, a bit embarrassed. He holds the door open for you and you slip inside the passenger seat. The bleeding has stopped but you take the free napkin to wipe any blood off your face. You sniff a few times just to be on the safe side.

“I can’t imagine why I would have changed my mind about coming tonight. No offense Dr. Park, but I’m not someone who does things spontaneously or on a whim. I can’t imagine why I would actually do something as self-destructive as go on a date, no matter how innocent, with my psychiatrist.” You are surprised by the hostility in your tone. It’s as if you are trying to insult him.

For a moment he doesn’t talk because he is concentrating on make a lane change. The car is dark with the exception of the glowing dashboard icons. It’s 8:15p.m. His car has a built in touchscreen showing a GPS map with no particular destination inputted.

“I would normally give the rather vague but pseudo-intellectual response about how it is in moments that we believe we are acting out of character that is most revealing of our true nature, but we are not on the clock.” He glances at you with an easy smile. “But the truth of the matter is that I too am not certain why you had changed your mind. In fact, I had just preheated the oven with the expectation of a delicious roast when I received your call. And while it was a pleasant surprise, it was a surprise nonetheless.”

“What did I say when I called?” You mentally prepare yourself for his answer by taking in a deep breath. The glass is beginning to fog around the rim with condensation.

“You only mentioned that you had changed your mind, that you were quite free for the evening and upon giving it some thought, you wouldn’t mind a change of scenery for dinner. You didn’t say anything more than that. I even asked you if it would be all right with your boyfriend. You said he was fine. To be perfectly honest, I thought you had changed your mind because you  wanted to know what I had to say about Oh Sehun.”

Deep in thought you don’t say anything for a moment. 

“Where are we going?” you ask.

“I’m taking you to the hospital. While it could be nothing, it’s better to be safe than sorry as they say.”

“What did you want to tell me about Oh Sehun?”

He gives you an uncertain side eye glance. It is obvious he is uncomfortable about what he is going to say next. “We spoke briefly about in the car on the way over here. You really do not remember?”

“I don’t.”

“He has a Dissociative Identity Disorder, previously known as Multiple Personality Disorder or colloquially known as Split Personality. I am almost finished typing up the full report and you can see the interviews for yourself in the recordings. It’s a very rare disorder, even rarer still to see manifest in a man with no past history of abuse. He has no record of psychiatric illness in Korea, but with a little digging, I found that he went to see a doctor during his stay in China. He was most likely misdiagnosed with Depression. He was given a prescription, but it looks like that he never filled it.”

“What’s the illness called for people who have lost time like I do? It’s something-amnesia.”

“Dissociative Amnesia.” He gives you another concerned glance. “Dissociative Disorders are quite varied and are grouped together because of their disruptions in memory, perception, and awareness. Don’t worry. You do not have what Oh Sehun has. Dissociative Amnesia can be a symptom of many things and is not a disorder in and of itself.” And then after a moment of silence, he says, “I will also like to put in a formal request tomorrow to interview the son Luhan.”

“Did one of Oh Sehun’s alternate personalities confess to murder?”

“No outright confessions--you can read the transcripts yourself, but there is something I find quite unusual about this case and my instincts tell me that Luhan will be crucial in understanding what has happened to Oh Sehun.”

“What do you mean by that? You think something happened to Oh Sehun to make him the way he is?”

“As a doctor I cannot speak in certainties, but I believe something crucial happened to Oh Sehun when he was in China.” And then changing the subject, he turns his attention to you. “How are you feeling? Do you still remember everything that has happened so far since leaving the restaurant?”

“Yes,” you reply. “I feel fine actually. I don’t want to go to the ER again. Seeing all those sick and injured people and waiting all night… I’d really prefer to just go home. So please, just take me home. I insist,” you press.

“Very well,” he finally complies after taking a moment to think about it. “But you must promise to call me if anything else unusual should happen.”

“Alright.”

Eventually he pulls up to your apartment building. Like a gentleman he walks to the front door your building, but you tell him he needn’t escort you any further. He makes you promise once again to notify him or some other doctor if you feel at all unwell.

“I’m sorry for ruining your dinner,” you tell him.

“You’ve ruined nothing,” he assures you. “As much as I love a delicious meal, it is of secondary importance to the safety and well-being of my friends. Goodnight.”

You head up to your apartment and hold your breath when you turn the key. The gap in your memory has left you uneasy. When the door opens the apartment is dark. You flip on the light expecting the worse, but everything appears to be normal. However, just to be sure you do not uncover any unpleasant surprises, you comb through the apartment twice before you decide to shower and go to bed. You fall into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning, you wake up to realize that Jongin hasn’t come home.


	26. Egg

The first thing you do is check your phone. No new messages. Had you said something awful to him last night? Did you two fight? You wouldn’t put it past yourself. You pace your bedroom, opening and closing drawers absent-mindedly as you listen to Jongin’s answering machine message over and over. You tell yourself his phone must be dead, but where is he? What if he’s just not picking up? What if he’s mad at you? Or even worse, what if something terrible had happened to him? What if he’s gotten into an accident while you were out of your mind and having a fancy dinner with your goddamn therapist?

You slap your face a few times and tell yourself that you aren’t going to cry. You don’t do that kind of thing anymore, remember?

The fact that his clothes are still neatly folded in the drawers are some comfort. You shake your head. Now isn’t the time to be panicking. There’s no guarantee that he’s gone missing. You have to get ready for work. After showering and getting dressed, you decide to leave a voicemail. “Hey Jongin? It’s me. Call me when you get this message. I don’t remember what happened last night… well specifically between mid noon and evening, and I can’t remember if you told me you were going to stay out or go somewhere so I’m a bit worried that you haven’t come home this morning. I’m going to head to work now so… please call me or leave me message. I love you. Bye.”

You take a deep breath and make yourself a cup of coffee. You haven’t eaten much since last night so you make yourself a few hard boiled eggs. The other quick option is toast, but you tell yourself it’s important to get enough protein in your diet. You’ll need it to function.

Chanyeol has sent you a message asking if everything is okay. You ignore it. You know it’s not his fault, but you can’t help blaming him. You don’t like how much you are relying on him and you don’t want to have to tell him once again, that you are not okay.

When you get to the department you see Yifan walking to the parking lot to his car. “Great you’re here. I was just about to call you,” he says, putting on his sunglasses.

“What’s going on?” you ask. You notice that Yifan has been coming into work earlier and earlier. This case must mean a lot to him. It’s probably because Luhan is involved. 

“They found a body. Young male. No other details than that. Says the crime scene is packaged for us. Might be our loose murderer,” Yifan says. 

You stare at him. “Did they say who it was?”

“Unidentified as of yet. Aren’t you going to get in? They’re expecting us.” Yifan is giving you a strange look. You nod, biting down on a trembling bottom lip and get into the car.

The Buddha statue smiles at you from the dashboard. You know he’s going to ask you what’s wrong eventually so you start off the topic by asking him about Luhan. “Have you seen him lately? How’s the adoption process coming along?”

“He’s doing better. Everyone at the ward loves him. The doctors, the nurses, the x-ray tech, the other patients, the families of other patients. He’s pretty shy, but once you get him started he doesn’t stop,” he says with an unconscious smile. It’s been awhile since you’ve seen Yifan show a genuine from the heart smile. It makes you feel better despite everything else. “The process is slow with the case unsolved and all that. The Chief told me just this morning that Dr. Park wants to interview him privately. Hopefully that’ll do Luhan some good. He’s a good kid, bright and real optimistic, but you just don’t get away from everything that’s happened without a scratch.”

The area you both arrive at is in a seedy spot outside the city. There are a bunch of run down old houses, most abandoned, on the street. The houses themselves are very European in design and at one point you are sure they used to be expensive homes. Now they are outdated and worn down from a lack of maintenance. The neighborhood is close to an old textile factory that has since gone out of business. The workers who used to live here had probably all moved away once it became too expensive. Due to South Korea’s rising wealth, many factory jobs have moved to South Asia and Southeast Asia, following the business models of the west. 

The house of the crime scene has been sectioned off by tape. You and Yifan both go under and into a yellowing white house with peeling paint. There’s an earthy smell in the air as soon as you step inside. The house itself is bare, with little furniture except a fold out sofa that doubles as a futon, and an uncovered stained mattress in the corner. Takeout bags are littered everywhere on the floor. There’s mold growing on the walls. Cockroaches scurry across the floorboards. You step carefully.

The whole scene would’ve been eerie if not for the lack of activity inside. The photographers are busy at work. Parts of the home are sectioned off by tape and given a number. Evidence is being collected in bags.

“In the kitchen,” one of the officers tell you both. 

The scent of soil is strongest in the kitchen and it’s obvious why. Someone has been growing plants, specifically fungi, indoors. There are cardboard boxes and glass jars overflowing with mushrooms. The lamps overhead used to simulate sunlight makes the room warm and stuffy.

“Looks like the victim was using this place to grow psychotropic mushrooms and plants.”

“Marijuana,” Yifan says with a frown as he examines the leaves of one of the plant beds. “Why do you think this is a guy for us?” Yifan asks. “It could’ve just been a deal gone wrong. Happens sometimes.”

You notice that there is a tiny door in the kitchen. It is barely big enough for a small child to fit through. You kneel down to take a look at it.

“What’s that? A kid door? A dog door?” Yifan asks. 

“An icebox door,” you tell him. “Back before the days of refrigeration, there used to be an ice man that would come to each house to deliver a big block of ice. Instead of coming through the front door, there would be a small door like this in the back of the house where the ice man could slip a block of ice in. You rarely see anything like this in Korea. Does this door open?” you ask as you attempt to pull and push the door. Eventually it gives way and opens. You get onto your knees and peer through at a lush green garden growing outside. 

“You sure know a lot of random facts. See anything?” Yifan asks.

“Sunflowers.” Right outside the door are tall stalks of sunflowers and seeing them from your vantage point makes you feel strangely small. “This reminds me of a scene from Alice where she is too big to fit through the small door. Doesn’t necessarily make it our guy, but… it’s a peculiar coincidence.” You climb back to your feet and dust the dirt from your clothes.

“Here’s the reason why we think it’s your guy,” the officer leading the two of you says. “The body is out back.”

The two of you stare in shock and confusion. There is a large man-sized cocoon hanging from the tree in the backyard. 

“What the  _ hell  _ am I looking at?” Yifan asks.

“Our victim is in there. He’s been encased in some sort of papier-mâché shell. The shell’s been sprayed with some sort of insect pheromone. It’s been attracting butterflies from all over the city. That’s how we found him in the first place. Some butterfly enthusiast jumped the fence into the yard while chasing some rare butterfly. We’re about to cut him down, see what’s inside.”

Before they start you step up to the cocoon. Butterflies are crawling all over the surface. Beneath direct sunlight you can see the silhouette of the man inside the shell. It is like an egg. What monstrosity will be born of it? Your hear a humming sound coming from inside. It’s a voice, a speaking voice. A chill runs down your spine. 

“Is he still alive?” you ask, bewildered. “I hear someone talking!”

The men exchange alarmed glances and then hurry over to the cocoon. They hold their breaths and listen. “Holy shit, I hear it,” Yifan says. He turns to the men. “Someone get him out of there!”

Once the cocoon has safely been lowered to the ground, two guys suit up and slowly cut open the papier-mâché with a small electric saw while shouts of “be careful” and “watch out you don’t accidentally kill the guy” are shouted. A horrible smell seeps out from the inside. The shell splits open with a flurry of white dust and the body topples out. The men jump back in surprise. The man is emaciated as if he has been starved to death and then dried out in the sun, but the worse of it is that his gaunt gray face is twisted into a loopy smile. The mouth is wide open, revealing crooked yellow teeth with blackened gums, a smile of a drug addict. It’s as if he is laughing silently. But the man is dead. There’s no doubt about it, but a voice continues to speak.

“It’s a recording,” Yifan says.

The dead man has a small stereo wrapped in his stick thin arms. The voice is not talking to anyone, it is instead reading the same passage from a book over and over again. You know this book.

> _ “'Who are  _ **_you_ ** _?' said the Caterpillar. _
> 
> _ This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, 'I — I hardly know, sir, just at present — at least I know who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.' _
> 
> _ 'What do you mean by that?' said the Caterpillar sternly. 'Explain yourself!' _
> 
> _ 'I can't explain  _ **_myself_ ** _ , I'm afraid, sir' said Alice, 'because I'm not myself, you see.'” _

Yifan notices that your face has turned an ashen white. “Hey,” he says in a tone meant to soothe but even he could not hide the worry in his voice. You turn around and vomit up your insides onto the sunflower beds. A pool of crushed eggs lies foaming on the weeds.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This is my first EXO fanfic and my first fic on AO3 so any comments and constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated!


End file.
